


An Equal Exchange

by ceremonial_motions



Series: The Lord of Nothing Series [2]
Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:21:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceremonial_motions/pseuds/ceremonial_motions
Summary: Raistlin's fight against the Nothing continues as he embarks on a journey into the lands of Khur, searching for the famed Spring of the Unspoiled. But will his attempt to remove Raelanna's curse be successful? Or will his inner demons prove his undoing?  Canon divergent AU. Spoilers for Chronicles, Legends, and minor spoilers for the War of the Souls Trilogy. Gen fic heading into m/m territory.
Relationships: Dalamar the Dark/Raistlin Majere
Series: The Lord of Nothing Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585282
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	1. Day of Life Gift

Raistlin sat in his preferred corner of the new Inn of the Last Home. His long fingers toyed with the mug of tea that sat before him, not so much nervous as eternally contemplative. Indeed his mind was currently abuzz with a myriad of thoughts that all required his utmost attention, matters that he must sort through quickly and efficiently, for there were other matters that he knew would spring forth just behind them. There was the Tower to consider, and his apprentice. He hadn't left either in months, and Raistlin was already regretting his decision to do so now. Their work had been left in a most precarious state, and, although he had left specific instructions for Dalamar on how to renew the spells and wards that kept their experiments functioning as planned, Raistlin never trusted any hand as much as his own. Dalamar was competent, adept even, but any mistake, no matter how small, would result in the complete and catastrophic failure of their works, and Raistlin did not wish to return to their laboratory to find that the last eighteen months of magical innovation had all been for naught.

Indeed, he would not have left the Tower at all, if it hadn’t been for the Nothing.

“He is so strong for his age,” Goldmoon cooed at the babe Caramon had just placed in her arms. They stood at the center of the Inn's common room, morning light and leaf-rustling breeze making the stained-glass dance on the floor. “And so handsome.”

Raistlin scoffed. The one-year-old looked like any other child his age. Doughy, dimpled. Raistlin granted that the young Tanin had a rather full head of red curls for one so young, but this was hardly cause for such a remark.

Caramon, however, beamed at the Plainswoman. “He is, isn't he?” His expression could not have been more proud, his eyes could not have held more love as he watched Goldmoon then pass the child with care to her husband Riverwind, who took Tanin reverently in his long arms.

“Such bright eyes, yes, and such powerful legs. He will make a fine warrior some day,” Riverwind proclaimed.

Now it was Tika's turn to scoff, “War this, war that. Is that all you men think of?” She had just returned from the kitchen, hand on her already newly-pregnant belly, where, by the smell that wafted in with her, she had been keeping an eye on their luncheon. Raistlin hoped she would serve it soon. He did not want to overstay his welcome. The Inn of the Last Home had been closed to the public for the most momentous occasion of the Heroes of the Lance congregating for the first time in well over two years to celebrate the first year of Tanin Majere’s life, and their noontide celebration was sure to be a most intimate affair—one which Raistlin had had very little desire to attend.

But the Nothing had heeded him on.

“Come, now Tika,” Tanis Half-Elven teased, standing to one side of Riverwind and watching his namesake with gleaming eyes. “You're being unfair. I’m sure nothing makes a father happier than imagining a future for his child.”

“A future is one thing,” Tika said, giving Caramon a freckle-faced glare. “But I won't stand for any talk of my son growing up to wield a sword like his fool of a father.”

“Aw, Tika,” Caramon protested.

“Don't 'aw, Tika' me, Caramon,” the red-head replied. She tossed her head, “Stow that kind of talk until he's at least old enough to walk. I refuse to think of him in plate and mail just yet.”

Caramon grumbled something unintelligible, his reply cut off by a lyrical laugh from Laurana, who was next in line to hold the child. Raistlin, who had before avoided looking directly at his old companions, now turned his hooded head to afford the elfmaid a better view.

“I'm in agreement, Tika,” Laurana smiled at the child, whose chubby hands were outstretched, reaching for the golden strands of hair that cascaded about the elf's shoulders before falling in lustrous waves down her back. “It's far too early for that kind of talk. Besides, he may not show any proficiency for the skills that make someone a mighty warrior. And then what will you do? Better to let the child decide for himself what he wishes to be.”

“What else is there for him?” Riverwind countered solemnly. “With a father and mother, two Heroes of the Lance?”

Laurana smiled at the Plainsman. Raistlin could not turn away. Disturbing as it was to see the babe, his nephew, age and wither and die in her arms through his accursed vision, it was equally captivating to see the elfmaid remain just as she was in his sight—lovely, pure, and whole. The Curse of Raelanna gave its victim few, if any, blessings, but the beauty of the elves was so long-lived that not even the darkest of magic could spur its passing. Raistlin knew this well. Dalamar had always remained similarly unmarred in his gaze, but while Dalamar was a singular shining star, Laurana was the sun itself.

“What have you planned for your own son? And your two daughters?” Laurana said to Riverwind. There was a challenge in her voice. “They are the children of two same such heroes. Have you already decided their fates as well?”

Goldmoon answered for her husband, her manner gentle. “Wanderer will follow in his father's footsteps, just as he will follow in his mother's. He has already begun to ride his horse, and his arrows hit their marks like one twice his age.” Pride swelled in her eyes, and she touched her husband's arm, “As for Moonsong and Brightdawn, they are, as Tanin, too small to know their futures. Our duty is to help them grow and let them prosper in whatever future they choose.”

Raistlin laughed. All eyes turned to him.

“Whatever future they choose, cleric of Mishakal?” His tone was mocking. That part of him where dwelt the Nothing knew that it was futile to speak. His former companions' sentiments were too saccharine for even  _ his  _ cynicism to sully, but the hypocrisy had become too much for Raistlin to bear. He smirked, “And what if that future does not align with your own? What if young Wanderer began to speak of a fondness for the Dark Queen, or your girls began to display an aptitude for magic? By your own words, you would be duty-bound to help them pursue such interests, the same as you would any other.”

Riverwind's face flushed in anger.

“I would stamp out such darkness from them,” the Plainsman answered, his eyes averted from Raistlin's, as if it were the wind that had spoken, not the wizard who sat in the corner. “I would not tolerate it in the slightest.”

“But not all magic is full of darkness,” Laurana countered, ever the diplomat. Raistlin was unsure if he was wholly grateful for her intervention, knew not how genuine it was. Her eyes were alight, her voice clear. “And even the dark magic has been valuable to us. Without Raistlin's help, the Dark Queen would not have been defeated. I might still be her prisoner.”

“Without Raistlin,” Riverwind spat, “we would not have been left to the mercy of the maelstrom. We would not have been left in the Blood Sea to die.”

Caramon started, eyes wide, “Riverwind—”

“I thought you had finally learned some sense, Caramon,” Riverwind cut him off darkly, turning to his friend with anger flashing in his eyes. “Giving up drink, building a home, starting a family. I thought,  _ we _ thought,” he looked to his wife, “that you had finally moved on and away from the one who has so long haunted you. But then we arrived at your doorstep, and who do we see waiting in the shadows like the ghoul that he is?”

Raistlin coolly lifted an eyebrow, “This ghoul was expressly invited by his brother to attend the Day of Lift Gift party of his nephew.”

“And why is that I wonder?” Riverwind finally turned his gaze to him, and Raistlin was momentarily taken aback by the hatred in his eyes. Raistlin might have gained his brother's forgiveness for the actions he had taken since parting ways with the Heroes of the Lance, but he had apparently not atoned himself in the slightest to the Plainsman. Something began to stir in the back of Raistlin’s mind. Something dark and unpleasant. Riverwind's stare was menacing, “What could you have possibly done that he welcomes you back with open arms? What witchery have you employed to make him your lapdog, mage?”

“No witchery,” Raistlin replied, his mind turning with sudden force to the prophetic ramblings of the time-traveling kender who had set Raistlin on this dizzying path to redemption—and to the Nothing that had been born from it. “No tricks. No lies. Just simple conversation.”

“Ha,” Riverwind’s laugh was harsh. “I don’t believe it.”

Tanis placed a hand on the Plainsman’s arm. “He did help defeat Kitiara,” he reminded him. “He saved all of Solamnia from the dragon armies last summer.”

“All to his own benefit I am sure,” Riverwind spat, shrugging out of his friend’s grasp.

“Whether for my own benefit or not,” Raistlin answered, surprised but not displeased that Tanis had spoken in his favor, “the outcome is the same. Thousands of lives saved, decades of war avoided, hundreds of the Dark Queen’s chromatic dragons thwarted and trapped in Sanction along with our dear sister.” He raised his tea to his lips, “But I am still an enemy in your eyes, Riverwind. I am still not to be trusted.”

“That is the truest statement you have ever uttered, mage,” Riverwind replied, his own face twisted in an angry grin. “All these things you have done, yes, but I have known many wolves to walk in sheep’s clothing, and I know that your deeds, Raistlin, are no more than your woolly disguise.”

Raistlin smirked, amused at the imagery he had conjured. “No, I’m afraid my disguise is decidedly  _ velveteen  _ in nature.”

“Raist‒” Caramon started, but was soon interrupted.

“Spare me your excuses, Caramon,” Riverwind said to the big man, who had taken his son back from Laurana's arms and was rocking him gently, trying to keep the clearly perturbed child from crying. “But I do not agree with his presence here, or with his place in your life. Better you had kept him distant. He is now as he always was. If you will not see that for yourself, then surely you will see that for the sake of your child. Do you really want Raistlin's shadow to permeate Tanin's life as well as your own?”

“Riverwind‒”

“Do you?” the Plainsman repeated.

Caramon’s gaze flickered to his twin, and Raistlin was surprised to hear that his voice, when he spoke, was strong and resolute. “Yes,” Caramon answered him. “I do.”

Riverwind quite apparently hadn’t expected such a reply. He stared at the big man in surprise before he cleared his throat and turned his face away completely. Tika's gaze was also fixed on the floor, face flushed dark.

“We will respect your wishes in this matter, Caramon,” Goldmoon continued in her husband’s place. She gave Riverwind a look that Raistlin knew well—the look of Chieftain's Daughter. “Won't we, Riverwind?”

Raistlin thought for a moment that he would not reply but, after a softly spoken phrase in their own language by Goldmoon, he saw the man nod his head, and say with reluctance, “If this is truly what you wish, Caramon, then I will say no further word against it.”

“Thank you,” Caramon said.

An awkward silence settled between the friends. Each avoided the others' gaze, but none quite as much as they avoided Raistlin's. After a few moments had passed, Tika, hands stroking her enlarged belly, announced that lunch should be nearly ready, and disappeared into the kitchen. This seemed to break the tension. The companions broke into groups, Riverwind and Tanis speaking in low voices as they wandered toward the bar, Laurana and Goldmoon beginning to chat calmly as they remained standing in the middle of the common room. The bright light of noontide illuminated the hair of both human and elf, although it lingered longer, in Raistlin's accursed sight, on Laurana's flowing, golden locks. The feeling that had slunk to the fore of his mind began to retreat. The Nothing hissed and recoiled from such as the Golden General, fearing the sun as much as the thoughts such a maiden inspired.

Raistlin smirked, mocking himself as much as the Nothing for allowing the elf's appearance to affect him so. He was grateful, at the least, that the demon in his mind had been banished by her. It was not always so easy. There were times, even now, nearly two years after his failed attempt at godhood, when the Nothing came so fierce and fast from its corner that it caught the black-robe entirely off guard. It could take days, weeks, to beat the monster back into submission, and such occasions were, Raistlin feared, growing all the more frequent. He had developed tactics and techniques, had established routines and modes of thinking that tried to circumvent the place where the Nothing lurked, but it was no idle beast. It learned nearly as quickly as Raistlin did. If he let his guard down, it was almost certain to find some way to reach its twisted and mangled claws out to him, and even morso when he was left to his own devices.

That was one of the reasons why he was here.

He had been skeptical, wary, of this meeting with those his brother considered his friends. When he had gotten Caramon's letter of invitation this past spring, he had already written a negative reply before realizing that he had yet to see his nephew, and that he had promised Caramon when he had last been in Solace that he would visit once the child had been born. He had only just begun to mend things with Caramon. He didn't want to start breaking promises already. Thus, with a sigh, Raistlin had thrown his original response into the fire and had penned a new, affirmative, missive, reminding himself as he did that companionship was one of the things that best combated the Nothing. The companionship of such as were gathered in the Inn today, however, paled next to that of Dalamar and his assistants at the Tower, but nothing had transpired thus far that Raistlin had not expected. He had anticipated such hostility from Caramon's friends, and while he did not welcome it per se, it at least had the effect of reminding him who his true allies were in this world.

Only one of which was here right now.

“Shh, little one, it's alright, shh,” Caramon was pleading with his ornery son as he continued to rock him. “Don't cry, there's a good boy. Don't cry.”

Something about the tone of his voice reminded Raistlin painfully of their own childhood. Memories came, unbidden, to Raistlin's mind. Nights together. Shadow puppets on the wall. Bunnies. He shivered.

“Shh, no, no,” Caramon continued his ineffectual admonitions as Tanin's uncertain babbling turned to distinct wailing. “None of that, no.”

Caramon's eyes were wide, his jaw clenched as he rocked the baby into even more of a fervor. The others, too lost in their respective reunions to give the sniffling child more than a sideways glance, continued their conversations. Raistlin watched his brother's desperation grow.

“Shh, shh,” Caramon was practically shaking the child now. Tanin's wails only grew louder. “Don't cry, Tanin, don't cry. Please.”

“Oh for Nuitari's sake,” Raistlin cursed under his breath as he took a stand and swiftly crossed the distance between himself and his brother. Giving no warning, he took his nephew from Caramon's arms and began to bounce him lightly, holding him at an angle. The effect was almost immediate. Tanin's cries of discomfort ceased, his tears dried, and he began to stare with interest at the strange man who had now decided to hold him. Green eyes curious, he reached up for a strand of prematurely white hair and laughed when the tug of his meaty fist caused a look of pain to cross Raistlin's face. “By the gods, nephew,” Raistlin chided with ill humor. “That is very impolite.” He carefully extracted his hair from Tanin's hands and, his task done, gingerly handed the child back to his father.

“Thanks Raist,” Caramon said, wonder apparent on his face as he beheld his now placated babe. Out of the corner of his eye, Raistlin could see the others had turned to face them as well. “I thought for sure he was going to bawl. How'd you stop him?”

Raistlin scoffed, “Not  _ shaking  _ the child for one. You must use a gentler motion my brother, none of this waving him about.” He raised his eyebrow at his twin, “How have you managed to care for him thus far?”

Caramon's face flushed, “I, er, Tika does most of this stuff. We have a girl who watches him too, when we're both busy. I watch him sometimes,” he added hastily at Raistlin's cool glare, “but when he's like this, I just don't know what to do. Wait it out, I guess.”

“Well consider this a lesson, brother,” Raistlin admonished. “You will soon have two children. You cannot continue to rely on Tika to handle their care in your stead.”

“Sure, Raist, you're right,” Caramon grumbled, contrite.

“I didn't know you had such experience with children,” Laurana said, coming to stand by the twins. Her smile was kind.

Raistlin regarded the elfmaid askance and his voice, when he spoke, was soft. “I have cared for many in my lifetime, Laurana, of many ages. The young fall ill too.”

Laurana's smile vanished, her eyes widening slightly as if she herself could see the faces of the young plague victims Raistlin had once treated. Her expression hardened, “Yes. Yes, they do.”

Just then, the door to the Inn of the Last Home was thrown open, and a familiar, grating voice pierced Raistlin's ears.

“Hullo! Sorry I'm late! My pouch of maps went missing and I had the  _ hardest  _ time trying to recover it and you know how long it's taken me to find some of those and I only decided to ask that goblin in an effort to be thorough and his companion in the tree caught me completely by surprise and—”

“Hello Tas,” Tanis Half-Elven was first to greet the kender.

“Tanis!” Tasslehoff Burrfoot dashed across the common room, pouches, ten at least, bouncing and jangling as he flung his arms around his old friend. In contrast to the rather drably dressed half-elf, Tas was wearing a pair of leggings that appeared to have been spun from at least six different colors of thread, and a horridly bright yellow vest covered his rather mud-stained and oversized linen shirt. Leaves and twigs seemed to have gotten stuck in his ridiculously long topknot of hair, and his boots were muddy almost to the tops of his socks. “And Laurana!” he soon threw himself at the elfmaid. “And Goldmoon! And Riverwind!” The kender managed, somehow, to hug both of the Plainsmen at the same time.

“It is good to see you,” Goldmoon looked down at the kender fondly, but Tasslehoff's attention had already been caught by the small being in Caramon's arms, and by Raistlin standing just next to them.

“Oh Caramon, he's wonderful!” Tas declared as he bounded up to the big man, climbing effortlessly on top of a table to get a better look at the babe. His impish eyes were wide as he beheld him. “And he looks so big! Is that normal?”

“He's already a year old, Tas,” Caramon replied.

“Is he really?” Tas gasped. “My how the time flies. I could have sworn that it was only yesterday that I was in Palanthas, stopping by all my good friends when I got your letter. I'll never forget the look on Lady Crysania's face—she says hello by the way Raistlin,” the kender said to the mage without even pausing for breath, “when I told her the news that you’d finally become a father. What was it that she’d said?” Tas looked contemplative, one hand on his chin, “Oh yes, I remember. She was 'certain that nothing would make you or Tika happier than this new and sacred blessing from the very heart of Paladine.'”

“She was right,” Caramon said quietly, gently rocking his son.

Raistlin smirked in amusement at Lady Crysania’s blessing, but said nothing. He could well imagine what the kender had described. He and the head of the church were not friends, certainly, but they were, at the least, confidants. She was one of the few he had told about the strange events that had led to Raistlin abandoning his plans in Istar. She was one of the few who now understood the doom that had awaited him, awaited them all, should he have been allowed to succeed. Much as he found Crysania lacking in sense, he had come to admit, over the course of their history and her continued visits to his Tower, that she was growing in wisdom. Each time he saw her, she seemed to have shed more and more of her pride, her once selfish motives replaced with a genuine desire to understand the world, the better to help it in ways that did not disturb the balance of good and evil. Such visits were one of the things that helped keep the Nothing at bay. Lady Crysania could be overbearing, and her broadening worldview was still at its heart quite narrow, but the few nights a year they spent relaying their respective endeavors in the privacy of Raistlin's study were much anticipated by both parties, and Raistlin had found that, if he were not trying to manipulate the conversation to his own end, he rather enjoyed listening to what the Revered Daughter had to say.

“When did you last see her?” Laurana asked the kender politely. Strange, Raistlin thought. He had not thought they were acquainted, but he supposed that the famed Golden General and the head of the church would have had at least one mutual meeting between them—probably at some stuffy event at the Lord of the City's palace that neither had enjoyed.

“Who?” Tas asked, distracted by the silverware rapidly disappearing into one of his pouches. “Oh, Lady Crysania? Last autumn. We didn't talk much. She seemed awfully busy.” The kender's expression fell momentarily, but was soon replaced by an accusatory glance at Raistlin. “I tried to see  _ you  _ last autumn as well, but you never replied to my letter.”

Raistlin smiled coldly. “If you think I would allow a kender into the Tower of High Sorcery...”

“But the Tower’s so interesting! And there were so many things I wanted to see!” Tas pleaded. He scrambled down the table to stand closer to Raistlin, looking up at him with large, eager eyes. “Ghosts and monsters, creatures of the Abyss—bodies raised from the dead!

Laurana and Goldmoon frowned, their respective husbands coming over to join them with dark looks on their faces.

“Raised from the dead?” Tanis Half-Elven said, his pinched expression betraying the unease he surely felt. He glanced at Raistlin, but the mage kept his face carefully guarded, giving nothing, neither confirmation nor denial, of what the kender had said. “Don't spread kender tales, Tas,” Tanis remonstrated. “I'm sure whatever you heard about Raistlin's Tower has been greatly exaggerated.”

“But they're  _ not  _ kender tales,” Tas protested. “Lady Crysania told me herself.”

Riverwind looked up sharply at the mage, disgust and hatred apparent on his features. “A necromancer,” he stated.

“A what-o-mancer?” Tas asked, looking at Raistlin as if he were a shiny new object to collect and stuff into his pouch.

“A necromancer,” Riverwind repeated with heat, fists clenching at his sides. “An evil wizard who raises bodies from the dead and reanimates their corpes to do their own twisted bidding. They are the foulest, the darkest, the most vile of all evil-doers. And Raistlin has become one of them.”

“Is this true, Raistlin?” Laurana asked, lips pursed in confusion. “Have you been dealing with,” she seemed almost reluctant to continue, “necromancy?”

Five sets of eyes turned to him with varying degrees of accusation. Even Caramon, who was still holding little Tanin, turned to Raistlin with an uncertain expression. 

The Nothing lifted its head.

Tanis looked to his wife, “Laurana, perhaps it’s best not to pry—”

“Do not silence her, Tanis,” Riverwind cut him off. He took a step nearer to Raistlin, “I would like to hear what he has to say. Have you been dealing in such unholy rites, mage? Or do you dare to call the head of the church a liar?”

“I call her no such thing,” Raistlin replied coolly.

“Then answer me plainly,” Riverwind demanded, his willowy height towering over the mage. “If your brother still wishes that you be a part of his life, then that is his decision to make, but I will  _ not  _ associate with the likes of those who profane the natural order of things and show as little respect for the dead as they do for the living.”

“I profane nothing,” Raistlin hissed.

“Then why would Lady Crysania tell Tasslehoff such a thing?” Laurana asked, frowning.

Raistlin turned to her, a flash of betrayal hot in his stomach. “That does not concern you,” he snapped.

“Answer me, mage,” Riverwind bellowed. “Have you or have you not been experimenting with necromancy?”

Raistlin returned his gaze with contempt. The fools. He should never have come here. This trip had been nothing but a charade. He had come here to fight the Nothing that rotted within, not to put himself and his actions on trial.

What did he have to justify? What did he owe them? He had not the energy to waste, had not the smallest inclination to explain himself to such as they. It was true that he and Dalamar had experimented with necromancy at one time, but that had been over a year ago, and they had not returned to that sordid practice since. They had taken its principals, had studied it, had transformed it, had begun to use it for the betterment of the world—

But how could he explain this to  _ them _ ? And why bother? They were nothing to him. Not friends, not allies, not even enemies. They were nothing. Nothing. Nothing!

Raistlin’s breath suddenly hitched, the coughing spasm coming fast and hard and causing him to prop himself up on the nearby table until it passed. No one moved, no one rushed to his side. Raistlin smiled bitterly into the fabric of his sleeve. He had almost forgotten how little they cared. Content and surrounded by his own kind in the Tower, Raistlin had almost forgotten the extent of his otherness before the eyes of his former companions. 

But he would not forget again.

“Yes,” Raistlin rasped, his coughing only partially subsided. “I have.”

Riverwind pulled a face and stepped away from Raistlin, muttering some oath in the tongue of the Que-shu. Shaking his head, he strode the length of the common room and slammed the door to the staircase, Goldmoon following after him.

“Riverwind, wait!” the cleric of Mishakal called.

Tanis and Laurana exchanged grim looks while Caramon continued to fuss with his child as if he had seen none of it, face turned partially away from them. What emotion was he trying to hide? Was he as disturbed as his guests by this proclamation? Was he ashamed of his brother? They had both agreed to remain in each other's lives. As far as Raistlin was concerned, that agreement had been made free of judgment, free of the petty concerns of Caramon's less-than-enlightened friends. But perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps Caramon regretted this arrangement even now. Perhaps he would throw him from his home, cast him out of his life as Raistlin had once cast him out in turn. Then he would nothing to him. Nothing. Nothing.

The Nothing began to walk.

“You see!” Tas exclaimed. He sat backwards on a nearby chair and looked up at Raistlin wistfully. “Where else would I get to see something as interesting as a living corpse? You have to let me visit you!”

“There are no living corpses at the Tower,” Raistlin replied tightly.

“But there must have been,” Tas said eagerly. “You said so yourself.”

Raistlin stared at the kender coolly. “I said no such thing.”

Tas sighed, placing his head in one hand and leaning forward on the backward chair, “Well then I must have missed my chance. Oh well. There's always next time. You will let me know the next time you decide to raise someone from the dead, won't you Raistlin?”

Raistlin straightened and regarded the kender without humor, “Yes, Tas. The next time my apprentice and I decide to reanimate a corpse, you will be the first to know.”

Tanis' face blanched, and Laurana cleared her throat politely.

“I'll go see if Tika needs any help in the kitchen,” the elfmaid said.

“I'll come with you,” Tanis added hastily.

“Hmm?” Tas whirled around, beholding the now empty common room. “Where did everyone go?”

“It's just us Tas,” Caramon said, finally bringing his gaze to meet his twin's. There was no anger in the big man's eyes, nor even regret. Raistlin almost recoiled as he recognized the emotion that filled Caramon's face. Pity. Damnable, unforgivable, pity.

The Nothing reached out its twisted, mangled hand, and lunged at Raistlin’s heart.

Hardly thinking, hardly realizing what was doing, Raistlin suddenly found himself whispering the words of a spell, and the common room of the Inn of the Last Home all but disappeared from his accursed sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! We're back in AU-land with what I've decided to call the Lord of Nothing Series (for reasons that I hope will become apparent). This first chapter is just a bit of a re-introduction to the state of Raistlin's affairs after the conclusion of A Fine Line, and a tiny bit of setup for what's to come ;) Cheers!


	2. Stasis

Raistlin appeared in his chambers with a rush of magic. Furious, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and flung it down upon his pristine bed.

“A farce,” he snarled. “A waste of my time.”

He knew he had panicked, knew his dramatic exit was certain to cause his brother no end of distress, but it was worth it—oh so worth it—to retain Raistlin’s sanity. An hour. He had lasted less than an hour in the presence of Caramon’s foolish friends. And he was probably still standing there with that look on his face, still trying to work out in his mind if he should be angry with Raistlin for upsetting his guests or not. He sneered. It was not Raistlin he should be upset with. If anyone was to blame for his son's disastrous celebration, it was Caramon himself. He should never have expected Raistlin to put up with their old acquaintances. How different things would be if they had not been there. It could have been pleasant—Raistlin and Caramon, trying to reconcile themselves to this new existence where they must both be their own entities, the child Tanin a mutual fascination between them, Tika tenuous but trying to keep her temper around the archmagus. Add Dalamar into the mix, and the visit would have been perfect—

Raistlin stopped in his tracks.

Dalamar. Why had his thoughts strayed to the dark elf?

It was only natural, he supposed. Dalamar had accompanied him to Solace the summer before last. He had sat by his side all night as Raistlin had awaited the conversation he had most dreaded, had been there the next morning to witness the pleasing aftermath of Raistlin's decision to inform his brother of what had truly happened in Istar. Not that Dalamar knew the particulars of that conversation. Raistlin frowned. His apprentice was still in the dark about that. He did not know of the Nothing, nor of the time-traveling kender who had saved him from his sordid fate.

He shook his head. He did not _need_ to know of such things. His place in Raistlin’s life had been solidified and carved in stone. Dalamar was his apprentice. True, they had become more animated with each other, their relationship growing warmer by increments over the last eighteen months they had spent working on their spells of stasis, but Raistlin still regarded the elf as apprentice first, all else second. He still felt a sliver of fear, a modicum of dread whenever their conversations strayed from the strictly academic and into the murkier waters of philosophy and pleasantries. The Nothing would always raise its head at such times, as if to anticipate the inevitable occurrence that Raistlin would say the wrong thing or otherwise derail their budding conversation for the worse, and it took all the will that Raistlin possessed to force that creature from his mind and simply enjoy Dalamar’s presence.

And it was his presence that he sought even now

Raistlin strode from his room. He passed through his study and out to the staircase, following its spiraling ascent upward. He could hear Lhyss and Dorark in the Scroll Room below, their whispers ending abruptly as the _clanks_ of the Staff of Magius reverberated through the open chasm at the Tower’s center. He had no need to see them. They made their weekly reports, kept out of his hair the great majority of the time. His mind was fixated on the elf, and on the experiment he had left in his hands only an hour before.

“Apprentice,” Raistlin called through the door of the laboratory. He dare not enter, not before confirming that no active spell was taking place on the other side. “I have returned. May I pass?”

There came a shuffling of steps, and Dalamar himself opened the door, a small line of worry between his arched eyebrows.

“ _Shalafi_ ,” he said, soft voice surprised. “Yes, of course you may enter. I have hardly begun the day’s work. I had not expected you back for many hours.”

Raistlin walked swiftly past him, noting, as he did, a scent of jasmine lingering in the air. He frowned. He should reprimand him. Dalamar knew full well that any foreign substance could contaminate their work.

“My plans have changed,” Raistlin replied, voice terse and tight as he approached the stone table at the laboratory’s center.

“The party did not go well,” Dalamar observed. It was a statement, not a question, and when Raistlin turned to face his apprentice he was relieved to see, not pity, but understanding in his eyes.

Raistlin let out a shuddering sigh, placing one hand on the large table. “No,” he said. “It did not.”

Dalamar nodded. His long black hair rippled at the motion. “But you have realized your goal, yes? You have seen the child. You have congratulated your brother.”

“I have,” Raistlin acknowledged, wishing already that he had not mentioned the subject. The Nothing was still awake, claws digging into him as he floundered to decide how much to conceal from his apprentice, how much to tell. The Nothing wanted him to remain silent. The Nothing wanted him to push the dark elf away—and fighting that urge was almost as draining to Raistlin as the magic itself.

Dalamar seemed to have some sense of this. “Very well then,” he said simply, as if it were a matter of little importance. He probed no further into Tanin’s Day of Life Gift, and began to show his master the work he had done in his absence.

“I have finished renewing the wards on the boxes of stasis,” Dalamar explained. He picked up a medium-sized leather tome from the work table and held it in the crook of his arm. “And I was just about to record the day’s observations, although as you can see,” the elf gestured vaguely to the twenty-one glass cubes that covered the surface of the table, “the subjects show no apparent deterioration since the wards were last renewed four weeks before.”

Raistlin was circling the table now, tread slow, hands clasped behind his back, already putting the events of the afternoon to the back of his mind. “It is not quite so apparent to me,” he whispered. He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. Indeed the various items within the shimmering glass cubes were subject to his accursed sight—a head of cabbage, a sprig of rosemary, a deceased crustacean, a single rose—each appearing as normal for mere moments before the process of aging began to take hold. “Their decay is ever-present through my gaze.”

“Then it is a good thing that _I_ am the one tasked with recording our progress,” Dalamar’s response was almost a purr. “Although I believe you could manage it yourself, _shalafi,_ if you only took care to blink.”

Raistlin looked up sharply, taken aback by the flippant remark, but the barbed reply he had readied on his lips was stopped at the sight of Dalamar’s smile. Book still in hand, the elf’s quill scratched as he scrawled his notes in a script that Raistlin knew to be compact and graceful, eyes on his work and lips quirked ever-so-slightly upward.

Raistlin smiled slightly in turn, tension seeping out of him. “I _will_ take care, Dalamar, thank you.” The Nothing did not like that. Good, Raistlin thought. Let it slink away, let it be gone back to its dark and dingy corner. He had no use for it, not now, not here. Here he was in his domain, here there was no scrutiny, no hysterical accusations, no willful misunderstandings. Here it was just Raistlin and his work. The magic and his apprentice.

“We truly have created something wonderful here,” Dalamar mused as he made the rounds around each of the boxes of stasis, coming nearer to where Raistlin himself stood. “Aside from the few substances we have not been able to preserve…”

“Meat, dairy, spirits,” Raistlin recited from memory. It was maddening. Why could they preserve entire corpses of flesh and bone for days at a time, yet the simpler elements of their making could not be made to last for even one day more? “And the tarbean tea was only partially successful.”

Dalamar chuckled, “Yes. I still remember Dorark’s face when you had him drink it. The poor man. I don’t think he’s had a drop of the stuff since.”

Humor tugged again at the corners of Raistlin’s lips, warmth elicited as if by a plying hand.

“But he did not succumb to any ill-effects,” Raistlin reminded him, hiding his mirth behind an academic air. “Poor taste is a far better outcome than poison, although no more practical for our purposes.”

Dalamar paused in his administrations. “And are your designs for the boxes still the same, _shalafi_?” The elf’s eyes met his, hesitant and filled with a thinly veiled admiration.

A pleasant heat bubbled from someplace deep within. The Nothing slunk further away.

“Yes,” Raistlin answered. “Although,” he looked to the boxes on the large circular table with a frown. “We are still many years, perhaps decades, from that goal.”

“Progress is progress,” Dalamar said practically, resuming his notations. He walked behind Raistlin to reach the boxes on the other side, and the archmagus again caught the faintest hint of jasmine wafting from him. “No one else has come so far in the field of preservation. Not the high-and-mighty clerics, nor the damnable white-robes.”

Bound by the magic as all mages were, the dark elf still seemed to hold a certain predilection to despise and mistrust the followers of Solinari, and for reasons Raistlin could well imagine. Elves were allowed to follow their magical interests only under the tutelage of the wizards of good, and the Silvanesti elves, Raistlin knew, imposed even more barriers on the path of magical teaching than their cousins. In addition to pledging oneself to Paladine’s son, an elf must also have been born into the appropriate caste to be eligible for the study of magic. Dalamar had never said as much, but Raistlin had long suspected that his apprentice had not come from such a caste, and had thus been left to glean the magic through less-than-savory means. This made no difference to Raistlin. He himself had come from humble beginnings. If anything, Dalamar’s obscure origins only endeared the elf to him, for it made their mutual appreciation of their work all the stronger. 

“Although I am sure Lady Crysania will be pleased with us no matter the state of our experiments,” Dalamar muttered, drawing Raistlin from his thoughts. A frown had appeared on the elf’s face, a darkness breaking through his usually guarded demeanor.

“Her expectations are only exceeded by her praise,” Raistlin replied, perturbed at the change that had come over his apprentice. He could understand Dalamar’s hatred for the followers of Solinari, but he had yet to determine why Lady Crysania’s presence in their lives so unnerved him. If Raistlin could tolerate the woman, so could he.

“She has no notion of expectations,” Dalamar continued, still with that faint scowl. “You remember how she reacted, when we first revealed to her our work. One cabbage, and she thinks us capable of curing the entire world of the disease of hunger.”

“Progress is progress, as you said my apprentice,” Raistlin replied coolly.

Dalamar’s face flushed, apparently aware that he had spoken foolishly. “Forgive me, _shalafi_. I did not mean to cast doubt on you or your goals. I only meant that—”

Raistlin interrupted him with a wave of his hand, “Do not waste your apologies. I know what you meant. Lady Crysania is an avid supporter, but her sense is still lacking. The same steel that she insists upon leaving at our door could be used to feed the hungry of Palanthas even now.”

“Indeed,” Dalamar agreed, leaning over to observe the deceased crustacean in its shimmering glass cube. The crab had been fetched by Dalamar himself from Branchala Port last summer, and still looked as blue and fresh as the day he had brought it into the Tower. No slime had formed, and its underside, observed from gently lifting the box of stasis, still appeared meaty and strong. Raistlin did not relish the day they would have to attempt to eat it. He doubted, after the tarbean tea incident, that he could reasonably convince Dorark to partake in the creature (short of threatening some sort of magical harm on his assistant) and wondered briefly if he should invite Tasslehoff Burrfoot to his Tower after all. If he had a taste for crab...

That kender. In some strange, perverse way, Raistlin owed his life, perhaps his very soul, to him. If the Tasslehoff of the future had not decided to time-travel back to Istar to warn Raistlin of the fate that awaited him, he might never have turned from the path of certain destruction. Raistlin shivered, the warm feeling born of his apprentice’s smile all but evaporating as the chill of the Nothing settled in like miasmic fog. He could have been a god. He could have succeeded where all others had failed. He could have achieved his greatest feat—but the cost of such success, Raistlin now knew, was too high even for one such as himself. His soul would not be merely damned, not merely condemned to the deepest pits of the Abyss where it should by rights be delivered, but consumed, eaten and gnawed and chipped away by a loneliness so supreme that Raistlin still feared it would seep into his newly found existence. In the dark of the night, in the slow hours of the day, Raistlin would sit in his study and, if his assistants were too quiet, if his apprentice were too busy with other matters to tread softly through the Tower as he was wont, Raistlin would find himself devolving into a panic. Was he alone? Where had they gone? Had they left him? How could they? And why? Overcome with his fear, Raistlin would sit, paralyzed, at this desk, waiting for the sound of something, anything, that would signify that he was _not_ the only being left on the earth, _not_ the only being left in the starless heavens or the moonless night, _not_ the hourglass god that the elder Tasslehoff had once seen. 

Such episodes were dark, their onset sudden and their aftereffects frustrating to the outwardly cool and collected mage. Dalamar was typically the first to break the silence that had caused Raistlin’s panic, and the archmagus was always quick to snap and sneer whenever the elf would inevitably approach him. Not that this helped matters any. The Nothing thrived on anger, just as it thrived on loneliness. The only way that Raistlin could find of breaking this cycle was to leave his studies entirely and ascend to the Tower’s death walk, where at least he could _see_ that there was a city beyond his walls, full of life and love and people that hadn’t been destroyed by his own hand as they once would have been. They were there. They were Something. And so _he_ was Something.

“ _Shalafi?_ ” Dalamar’s voice was hesitant. He still held his notes, and was staring at Raistlin with an expression which may have appeared cold and distant to the casual observer, but in which Raistlin, who had known the elf for several years now, could read a trace of concern.

Raistlin did not reply. His mind was still on the Nothing, the kender, the disastrous Day of Life Gift party…He smirked, his ire directed at himself. How weak he had become. How spineless and susceptible he was to let the day’s activities affect him so. One simple errand, one simple change from his routine and he had crumpled, collapsed into himself like a maudlin schoolboy. And Dalamar was his witness. He would never again respect his master. He would think him mad, think him a fool who had let his magical prowess be conquered by his own internal ravings. He would—

Dalamar set down his notes, and crossed the laboratory to him.

“Raistlin,” he said. No pity, no judgement. “Forgive me, _shalafi,_ but you seem preoccupied.”

“I am,” Raistlin snapped, suddenly aware of how closely the elf stood. That dizzying scent of jasmine returned. “My thoughts turn to matters dark and unpleasant,” he muttered, “and I cannot make myself turn from them.”

Dalamar nodded. Raistlin had not told him of the Nothing, but the elf had certainly seen enough of his master’s behavior to have some inkling of its presence. Dalamar had been the one to originally suggest that Raistlin leave the Tower from time to time, a suggestion Raistlin had not followed nearly as often as he ought.

“Perhaps a turn around the Grove?” Dalamar prompted. “Or into the city. It seems a fine day, and the fresh air may prove beneficial—”

“No,” Raistlin shook his head, his throat already constricting at the thought of the stuffy and overcrowded city of Palanthas in the summer sun.

“Very well then,” Dalamar lowered his gaze, eyes cunning beneath long lashes. “We will remain here. But might I suggest,” he brought his eyes back to Raistlin’s and took another step forward, almost trapping Raistlin between himself and the wall of the laboratory, “that the next time you visit your fool of a brother, you take me along with you?”

Raistlin’s eyes widened, momentarily surprised to hear the elf echo his earlier thoughts, but he soon recovered. “And why should I do that, apprentice?” his tone was cool, harsh even as he gazed upon the handsome face that did not wither and age before him.

Dalamar smirked. “It was part of the arrangement, was it not? I was promised, if I remember correctly and I _do,_ ” his smile became even more arrogant, “that I could accompany you to Solace to feast upon the Inn’s delicacies so long as I do not forget to organize the laboratory at the end of each month. Well, _shalafi,”_ his eyes swept the room, “have I not met this requirement?”

Raistlin scowled, “I’ve had no reason to return to Solace until today, and you were not included in my invitation.”

Dalamar frowned, or rather, _pouted_ knowingly. “And yet we had parted on good terms. I wonder in what way I have offended your brother.”

Raistlin felt some of the tension slip from him at the dark elf’s expression, and he was forced to remember just how young Dalamar was. “I believe his wife is to blame. She knows our old companions well, and Tanin’s Day of Life Gift was strenuous enough with one black-robe in attendance. I cannot imagine how much more disastrous it would have been had we both been there.”

Dalamar chuckled darkly, “You make a valid point, _shalafi._ But even so,” another step closer, and Raistlin was alarmed to find that his feet were now interlocked with his own, and that he had to crane his neck to look at him. “My offer still stands,” Dalamar said softly. His dark eyes were once more filled with understanding. “You do not seem to do well when you are alone. You would do better with me at your side.”

As Raistlin was searching his mind for some way to respond that didn’t sound hysterical, frantic, or mad, a knock resounded from the laboratory door.

“Master?” an excited voice called from its other side. “Are you in there? Is it safe to pass? I think you’ll want to see this!”

Raistlin stepped back from Dalamar and began to cough in distress.

“Yes,” he called between coughs. “Come in.”

The door to the laboratory was flung open and in stepped Lhyss Antock, red robes fluttering behind her stout form as she bounded inside. She held a large book between both hands which Raistlin instantly recognized as belonging to the Great Library of Palanthas, and her ginger hair looked frazzled and disheveled, as if she had just lost a fight with the cat who liked to wander into the Shoikan Grove from time to time and somehow always managed to escape unharmed.

She stopped at the edge of the table, keen gaze sweeping between Raistlin and Dalamar, and grinned.

“Well?” Raistlin snapped, heat rising to his face at the table’s other end. “What is it?”

“It’s Raelanna’s curse, master,” she said. She was practically bobbing on her feet with excitement. “I think we’ve finally found something. I think we have a lead!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where that m/m tag starts to come in. I told you all in part one; I try to keep them in character and they just end up *flirting*


	3. Hand of the Goddess

“How many times must I tell you, Antock,” Raistlin fumed from behind his desk. They were alone in his study, the light of the afternoon sun filtering in from behind the dark curtains of the Tower. “You collect the data; _I_ interpret it. I can trust you fools with little else.”

“I haven’t interpreted anything, master,” Lhyss replied, unmoved. She sat across from him, the large leather volume she had brought to the laboratory clutched in her lap. Her tone was nonplussed, “You can’t expect me to ignore what’s staring me in the face, can you?”

“The Spring of the Unspoiled is a myth,” Raistlin asserted. He had already read Raelanna’s diary more times than he could count, and had dismissed her notations on the fabled Spring as the ravings of a woman who was near to madness, thanks in large part to the very curse which Raistlin now sought to unmake. “A kender tale.”

“That’s what folks said about the dragons,” Lhyss replied darkly. “And look what that got them. Burnt alive, that's what. Believe as you will, master, but I can't help but feel the hand of Lunitari in all this. I'd be doing a disservice to you _and_ her if I didn't bring this to your attention.”

“And how does the goddess of the red moon reveal her design to you?” Raistlin quipped, although he was inwardly perturbed that Lhyss had mentioned her patron. Raistlin had once been devoted to Lunitari, but he had turned from her at the end of the war. He doubted she held any affection for him now.

“With this.” She passed Raistlin the book from her lap. The archmagus took it, and set it dubiously before him.

“ _An Equal Exchange: Myths and Mythos of the Burning Lands,”_ Raistlin read from the cover. He stared coldly at his assistant. “The book itself speaks of myth.”

“But look at the author,” Lhyss insisted, leaning forward in her seat. “Keha Tondo, the best historian to come out of Khur in the last century. Their work is incredible, their sources based on fact—”

“I am familiar with their work, yes,” Raistlin waved a dismissive hand, prying the cover open and scouring the table of contents within. Lhyss had already penned an asterisk next to the chapter entitled _The Spring of the Unspoiled_. Astinus would not be pleased. “And I begin to see why you harbor such hopes. Tondo is well-respected, and I do not doubt this volume to be an informative read, but I fail to see what connection you have made to Raelanna’s diary, or to your most revered deity.”

“Well,” Lhyss, for once, had the good sense to appear contrite. Her brown eyes lowered, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Let’s just say that Dorark and I have been...less than enthused about our work for the last, well,” she chuckled nervously, “several months at least. Don’t get me wrong,” she looked up with an earnest expression, “we’re grateful for the opportunity to be here, the Tower is wonderful and the pay is excellent. It’s just that I could probably _recite_ that bloody diary if you put me up to it, Dorark too. I’ve started to dream of the thing, of the cataloging and the copying and the filing and the sorting and,” she shook her head, like a dog shaking itself of water, “suffice it to say that we’ve both been frustrated with our lack of success. We want you to break the curse,” Lhyss assured him. “We don’t much abide with what the Conclave did to you, and we want you to be rid of it as much as you do.”

“I disagree with that sentiment, Antock, but do please get on with it,” Raistlin snapped in annoyance.

“Yes, master,” Lhyss replied, freckled face still sheepish. “You see, the other day, when Dorark and I were feeling _particularly_ frustrated with our apparent boredom, I _may_ have uttered an oath to Lunitari and thrown down my copy of the diary _ever-so-slightly_ too hard and one of the pages _may_ have torn underfoot.”

Raistlin frowned, certain that what she had described was not physically possible and concluding thus that she was not telling him the truth.

“And wouldn’t you know it,” Lhyss said, breaking into a nervous smile, “the page that had torn was the first of many entries Raelanna had made about the Spring of the Unspoiled.”

“I see,” Raistlin replied, thinking it unlikely that Lunitari had intervened to bring the Spring to Lhyss’ attention in this way. It was more likely some accident, Lhyss’ story merely an excuse to cover for the mistreatment of their precious research materials. Perhaps he had been too lenient with his assistants. Perhaps they needed more overseeing than he thought. “And what prompted you to fetch _this_?” He gestured to Tondo’s book.

“Ah, well,” again that contrite air from his assistant. “The weekly report was coming up, and I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed again, so I sent Dorark to the Great Library to pick up some references on the subject, deciding research on a dead end was better than no research at all. I mean,” she chuckled, “it’s _all_ been a dead end so far, right? Yes, well,” she cleared her throat beneath Raistlin’s scrutinizing gaze, “I thought he'd be gone a few hours at least, but he returned in less than one, with just one volume in arm. I asked him what had happened, thinking he'd done something to upset the ascetics and had gotten himself thrown out—wouldn't be the first time—but he swore on his auntie's grave that, as soon as he'd gotten there, a nervous old monk name Bertram had approached him and had given him the book saying ‘his Master had anticipated our need’ and that they expected the book back no later than next week.”

Raistlin was silent a moment, his interest finally piqued. The ‘Master’ in question was, no doubt, his old friend Astinus, the Ageless One whom many considered the hands and mouth of the god Gilean, if not the god himself. If he had selected this volume, if he had ceased his endless writings to pick this book from the ancient and venerated shelves of the Great Library with the intent that it would be given to Raistlin...

“Perhaps you are on to something,” Raistlin murmured. “The gods of neutrality may have intervened in my affairs after all.”

“Exactly,” Lhyss smiled. “That’s precisely what I thought. I said a prayer to Lunitari the moment Dorark told me what happened. I read the book before bringing it to you, of course,” she continued, her unease all but melting away. “I didn’t want to waste your time if it turned out that I was wrong, but, master, I don’t think I _am_ wrong. The Spring of the Unspoiled is as well-documented as the dragons ever were and Tondo had so much to say about it and I’m _certain_ that it’s real,” she continued, brown eyes resolute, “and I’m certain that it can help you.”

“In what way?” Raistlin asked, careful to keep his own thoughts guarded. He mustn’t appear too eager, he mustn’t let himself get too carried away. “You say you have read it? Tell me what you know.”

Lhyss sat back in her chair, eyebrows raised in surprise. “There’s a damn lot _to_ know, I can tell you that. There’s over a hundred pages of text on the thing.”

“Summarize,” Raistlin commanded coolly.

“Oh, yes, I will,” Lhyss assured him. “I only meant that there’s a lot to be said about the Spring, and I think you’ll be more than satisfied. The only problem is, well,” she hesitated, “Tondo’s research was thorough, but the Spring’s about as legendary as you can get, and even _they_ weren’t sure exactly how it worked. There seems to be some contending opinions on how it does what it does.”

“And what, exactly, does it do?” Raistlin asked.

“It heals people,” Lhyss said, tone practical. “Really, truly heals people.”

“Clerics heal people,” Raistlin scoffed, thinking that perhaps he was wasting his time after all. “As do those who study medicine. Neither has been known to break curses the likes of Raelanna’s.”

Lhyss shook her head, emphatic, “No, you don’t understand. The Spring of the Unspoiled doesn’t just heal broken bones or treat second-rate cases of the measles; it’s been rumored to bring people back from the dead.”

Raistlin frowned. He hadn’t expected that. “That would be powerful indeed, if it were true.”

“I believe that it is,” Lhyss said steadily. “Tondo mentions several occasions where life was restored, but the particulars of these occurrences are always hazy. For one, the peoples of Khur can’t seem to come to a consensus on where the Spring actually is. Some place it near the ruins of Ayin, some place it by the Standing Stones. For two, no one seems to know what makes its magic work. Some people believe the Spring was blessed by Paladine, others say it was Sirrion who first gave life to its waters. But one thing is for certain,” she continued, “the tales _always_ mention a guardian, a trickster spirit that haunts the Spring and strikes bargains with those who would make use of it. That’s where the book’s title comes from,” Lhyss explained. “An equal exchange. They say the spirit asks for payment in return for using the Spring’s miraculous powers, but what exactly these people had to pay to restore the lives of their loved ones, Tondo didn’t seem to know.”

“I believe I can guess,” Raistlin said, contemplative as his fingers traced the ink upon the pages of the tome before him. A life for a life. He was certain that was what the exchanged implied. He smiled bitterly, “We are lucky that I am only seeking to heal my sight.”

“But what could you give it, master,” Lhyss asked, “in exchange for breaking the curse?”

“That is not your concern,” Raistlin replied coldly. “Remember, Antock, you supply the data…”

“And _you_ interpret it,” Lhyss finished lamely, sitting back in her chair once more. The woman’s face, aging and decaying in his sight, but otherwise that of a plump thirty-two-year-old human, was somber, and lost in thought. “Tondo seems to imply a kind of transference, that whatever ailment the Spring is to cure must be given to someone else in turn. There is a tale,” her frown grew, “where a boy and his sister visited the Spring to lift the girl from the grips of a terrible illness. She was healed, but they later discovered that the Spring’s waters had passed the same illness from her unto her brother.”

“It is possible that the girl was contagious,” Raistlin replied evenly, “that the disease had already been shared between them, and that he only began to show signs of the illness after visiting the Spring.”

“True,” Lhyss conceded, although the dark look had not left her face. She sat, silent a moment, conflict apparent in her eyes. When she spoke, it was with hesitation. “I’m enthused at this prospect, master, and I am certain that, whatever the true nature of the Spring, _you_ are the one most capable of unraveling it, but,” she shivered, “Lunitari’s hand or not, the things Tondo wrote were enough to keep even _me_ awake at night. The spirit that guards the Spring is probably the nastiest creature I’ve ever heard of, next to the Dark Queen herself.”

Raistlin, who had seen the true terror and splendor of the Dark Queen through the memories of the elder Tasslehoff, silently doubted this assessment, but he was warmed by her concern all the same.

“Worry not, Lhyss,” Raistlin replied evenly. “Should I decide to undertake the journey into Khur, I will not go unprepared. I am well aware of the implications of such shadowy bargains as you have described, and I have no wish to besmirch my life or my magic to the wiles of some desert trickster.”

Lhyss gave a small smile, “I know. But that seems to be the recurring theme of the Spring: people losing things they aren’t prepared to lose.”

Raistlin considered her words. While she was nothing more than a lowly assistant, Raistlin had not chosen her idly. She was preceptive, practical. She did not say things that she did not mean, and what she said was often the result of sound, methodical thought. Raistlin knew better than to dismiss her fears, ridiculous as they may seem at the moment.

“I will be careful,” Raistlin said.

“Good. Glad to hear it,” Lhyss replied, standing and adopting a businesslike air. “I’ll leave you to it then, master. Dorark’s probably wondering where I’ve gone off to. I left him with the cleaning.”

“You and Dorark may take the night off,” Raistlin said with a wave of his hand. “And leave your cleaning for tomorrow.”

“Truly?” Lhyss beamed, her cheeks rosy and large. “If you say so, master. Thank you.”

“But be prepared,” Raistlin continued, eyes sharp, “I will have a great number of tasks to assign the both of you the day that follows.”

Lhyss continued to smile, “Yes, master. I look forward to it.”

“Very good,” Raistlin replied, already opening his book of notes to a fresh page and inking his raven-feathered quill. “And tell Dalamar to leave my meal at the door. I am not to be disturbed this night.”

“Yes, master,” Lhyss gave a respectful bow, and soon Raistlin was alone with his work.

And alone he remained.

The sun set and rose, and still Raistlin sat, unmoving except for the steady turning of the pages and the occasional scratching of his quill. Dalamar left his supper as instructed (the butt of the Staff of Magius colliding with one of the glass plates as Raistlin left his study the next day) but Raistlin took no heed of this event, as oblivious to its happening as he was disturbed by what he read in Tondo’s strange and sordid tales. When at last he did stir from his desk, it was not to seek the solitude of his bed, but rather to ascend the stairs to the death walk, where he stood and watched the city below with a haunted eye and hands that shook from fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my...
> 
> Shaking hands, a haunted stare...whatever could our dear archmagus have read?


	4. Sacred Ground

The summer night was dark and cool as Raistlin tread slowly through the streets of Palanthas. It was nearly midnight, and few others roamed the wide, wheel-and-spoke avenues of the city. Those who did encounter the archmagus were quick to avert both their gazes and their steps, cowering as if they could _feel_ the anger that radiated from Raistlin in almost physical waves. He carried the Staff of Magius, its crystal orb softly aglow as he made his way through the night, clinging to it as a man on the verge of collapse, which, in truth, he was. He had overexerted himself. He had too long remained fixated on the task before him. But he could not stop. He had to know. He _had_ to make up his mind—

He reached the Temple of Paladine with a gasp, a jolt of pain wracking his body as he crossed the threshold of its lush, verdant lawn. There was no one about, no devotees to witness this blatant display of discipline and power. Raistlin would not, under any normal circumstances, dare to enter such sacred grounds. But these were not normal circumstances, and Raistlin knew, rather than suspected, that at least one of the gods was watching out for him this night—the same god who had given him the key to removing Raelanna’s curse. The same god who had also, whether by ill-intent or intelligent design, given the mage his most terrible choice yet...

He had spent the last week in reviewing Tondo’s works on the Spring of the Unspoiled. He had hardly slept, hard hardly eaten since its pages had passed into his hands. He had spent hours uncounted at his desk, searching, scouring, hungrily devouring the words before him for something—anything—that would prove his theory wrong. But he had found nothing. Much was unknown about the Spring, much still left in obscurity, but what Raistlin knew for absolute fact was that the spirit who guarded the Spring of the Unspoiled would let no one use its miraculous waters without first paying their fair and adequate dues. A transference must occur. An equal exchange. And Raistlin was by no means exempt from this transaction. He _must_ give something to the spirit in exchange for restoring his sight. He would not be allowed to leave the Spring without fulfilling his own end of whatever bargain the conniving spirit would strike. Lhyss had known this. She had warned him, but Raistlin had thought, foolishly perhaps, arrogantly, that he would be able to find some way around it. His assistant was still young, inexperienced. She must have missed something. She must have been mistaken. But, after spending the last week holed up in his study, pointedly ignoring his apprentice and the other residents of the Tower, Raistlin could find nothing.

He passed the Temple proper, turning his harried steps to the decidedly less garish building where dwelled the living quarters of the clerics of Paladine and Mishikal who ran the church. He did not, in truth, know which was the room he sought, but this problem was so small and insignificant next to the larger and fouler quandary that burned within him that Raistlin paid it no heed. He would find what he needed. _Who_ he needed. And sure enough, as if summoned by his thoughts, the doors of the alabaster cloister opened, and from its mouth walked a figure in clerical robes of white.

Lady Crysania.

She walked as one who had just awakened from a most unpleasant dream, her pale face pinched, brow furrowed. She clasped the medallion of Paladine at her neck with one hand as she strode slowly toward a shallow pool of water at the center of the Temple’s grounds. A low wall surrounded the pool, and it was by this wall that she came to rest, her back to the water as she leaned against it in deep concentration.

“Good evening, Revered Daughter.”

Lady Crysania raised her head, seemingly unsurprised to see Raistlin as he left the shadows to join her. Lunitari dominated the sky, her partner Solinari hiding behind the Tower of High Sorcery itself. Their light combined into an eerie pink that bathed the otherwise tranquil reflecting pool in a horrid, blood-like pall.

“Raistlin,” she said softly. “I thought I might find you here,” her lips pursed in thought, her expression dark. “Although I am not certain why. You are not uwell are you?”

Raistlin smiled bitterly, leaning against the Staff as he stood before her. “I’m afraid I _am_ unwell, Revered Daughter. The gods of light are not pleased that I stand at their door. They try even now to encourage my leaving.”

Crysania’s eyes shone bright with worry in the darkness, her brows contracted slightly, “Then let us be brief, Raistlin. Why did you awaken me? Why are you here?”

Raistlin did not answer at first. Painful as it was to remain in Paladine’s domain, the physical discomfort he felt at the god’s nearness only served to distract him from the inner turmoil he felt. And it was far more tolerable besides.

“I have come to ask your counsel,” he said quietly, his voice rasping with effort, “about a task I am soon to undertake.”

“My counsel?” Lady Crysania’s eyebrows raised in surprise before her face settled into an amused smile that made his heart flutter briefly. “Since when have you listened to any counsel of mine, Raistlin?”

“Perhaps more often than you know,” Raistlin answered. Seeing that the cleric was still doubtful, Raistlin let out a small sigh, and came to stand against the low wall next to her. He peered up at the sky, at his own Tower, so strange and dark and distant from this part of the city, Solinari a crescent behind its peak. “And in any case, Lady Crysania, I would consider you an expert in the matter that is currently troubling me. I know of no one else I can turn to.”

Cryania’s smile became softer at these words, her eyes kind. “Very well. What is it that you would ask of me, Raistlin? You know I would help you with anything.”

A shiver ran through him. The Nothing laughed from the back of his mind.

“I think not,” he said acidly. He turned his accursed sight to her, flesh beginning to rot in a matter of moments, and continued in an emphatic hiss. “But that is precisely the matter, Crysania. You would _not_ help me with anything. You have your limits, as does my brother, although I am, perhaps, more aware of this than even he,” he muttered, “and yet I find myself in need of someone to help me with a great task, a most important undertaking—”

“An undertaking,” Crysania interrupted, frowning. Her eyes flashed, “Nothing that myself or the Church need be concerned with, I hope.”

Raistlin shook his head, smile bitter, “No, Lady Crysania. The only ones who need be concerned with this journey are the denizens of my own Tower. As I said, I must choose someone to accompany me on this plot, but I am loathe to place any of them in such a position.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. She leaned in closer to him, “Where is it that you’re going? Why not take your apprentice? It seems to me that he would be the obvious choice.”

“Indeed, he is,” Raistlin answered. He had expected her to say as much. If only she knew what such a choice portended. If only she knew what fate awaited the person he chose. A transference must occur. An equal exchange. “But I am afraid it is not so simple. The journey I am about to take is the culmination of many decades’ worth of research by another, and the natural conclusion of nearly one decade’s worth of abuse of myself by the Conclave of Wizards.”

“Abuse?” Crysania frowned, momentarily confused before she looked at him with sudden understanding. “Your eyes,” she gasped. “You’ve mentioned removing the curse. Does this mean—have you finally found out how?”

“Yes,” Raistlin answered.

“But you need Dalamar’s help in some way?” Crysania asked, brow still furrowed.

“I would need his help in a _great_ way,” Raistlin said, his heart shrinking away from the thought. “He would be in terrible danger, _certain_ danger,” he corrected himself, only willing to lie to the cleric to such an extent. “And unless I am very much mistaken about what it is that we are facing, he would not return the same as he is now.” 

“That is troubling, indeed,” Cryania said, her frown marring her otherwise lovely features. She turned to him, “Have you spoken with Dalamar about this? Have you considered that removing the curse may not be worth the harm that it could cause him?”

“I have said nothing to him,” Raistlin returned sharply. “How could I? I have been trying—each and every day—to fight the beast that has threatened to consume me from within ever since we returned from Istar.” He continued in a pained whisper, “I can hardly keep it at bay. I can hardly keep myself together—how could I ask him to do such a thing? And how could I not? When it is my very soul on the line.”

“Do you truly think restoring your sight will help you fight the Nothing?” she asked, tone gentle. He had told her, just as he had told Caramon, of the name he had given to the illness he had felt these last two years. He had assured her that it was no disease that a cleric could cure, and that he had all the tools he needed to fight it. He was not entirely certain that was true anymore. Its hand had only gripped him all the tighter as he had read Tondo’s book, as he had contemplated his next course of action and its inevitable end. He had already weighed his options like a miser coolly and detachedly weighs his hoard and had, in truth, already made up his mind to move forward with the plan he had formed. No matter what Crysania would tell him, Raistlin knew who he was, and he knew what he would do with the choice he had been given.

“Yes,” Raistlin answered. And that, at least, was no lie. He turned from her, beholding the blood-red reflecting pool behind them with hourglass eyes narrowed. “If you could only see the world as I have seen it, if you only knew the misery that has become my existence...I navigate a wasteland. Each moment of my life is tainted by death, each person I meet reduced to a living mask of decay. It is little wonder I keep to my Tower. What joy could there be for me to leave it? I have let few people into my life,” his voice was a dark, tainted whisper, “and even with the curse removed, I would let in few people more. I am no fool. I do not expect this journey to change any material part of me. I only wish to be given the chance to walk through this world without the shadow of death at my side. Perhaps then…” he said softly, “perhaps then…”

Lady Crysania placed a hand on his.

“You deserve that chance, Raistlin,” she said. Her gray eyes were warm and soft, and Raistlin realized with a start that they were the exact same shade as Dalamar’s, their look eerily similar to that which the elf would give him whenever the Nothing would cause his _shalafi’s_ hands to shake. The thought disturbed him greatly. “But as you said, what would it change?” the cleric continued. “Is there not anything you could do as you are now to ease the pain of—”

“Of what?” Raistlin snapped. He snatched his hand away, lungs threatening to send him into a fit at the sudden motion. “Of seeing your face wither and age and die each time I look at you? To see you fall victim to time’s decay over and over and over again?” He took a step nearer, “What could ease the pain of seeing you as such? Or my brother? Or his son? Why should I not take this chance to be able to see you as you truly are: pure and whole and _living_?”

Crysania gave him a grim smile, “You need not see me in this way, Raistlin. I am neither pure nor whole. Everyone has their demons, as you very well know.” She cocked her head to one side, one eyebrow arching slightly, “And what of Dalamar?”

“What about him?”

“He is an elf,” Crysania stated evenly. “He is immune to your sight.”

“And why should that matter?” he snapped. 

Crysania gave a sigh and pushed away from the wall, no longer leaning against it, “I thought perhaps it did. You spend much of your time with him. It seems a strange thing to me, to risk his wellbeing when he himself is not affected by this curse.”

“Not affected?” Raistlin sputtered, uncertain why his blood had begun to boil and his face had begun to flush. He leaned closer to her, his face inches from hers as he glowered, “ _I_ am the one who is affected by the curse; not my apprentice. Why should I care if he is immune to my sight? It is not enough. I wish to be rid of it. I wish to end it.”

“Then so be it, Raistlin,” Crysania said, looking up at him calmly, unfazed by his anger. “Do what you need to remove the curse, take Dalamar with you if you must, but please,” she placed a hand, cool, pale, on his golden cheek, and looked solemnly into his eyes, “do not seek to keep him in the dark. Do not deceive him as you once deceived me.”

“But the magic,” Raistlin whispered, lowering his own gaze so as not to have to witness her rot. If he could only focus on the feel of her hand, the touch of her skin on his, he could imagine that she was not transforming into a corpse before him. “The method by which the Curse of Raelanna may be removed is not a savory one. I do not know if he would agree to do it, should I ask him.”

“Then it is not to be,” Crysania said, sorrow making her voice emphatic. “If you cannot tell him the truth of the matter then it must be too dark a feat for even you to attempt. Please Raistlin,” she implored, “if you think his life is in danger—”

“He has already risked his life in his work for the Conclave,” Raistlin snarled, moving away from her touch.

“And he has already paid dearly for it,” Crysania countered. Her voice was hollow, frightened, one hand clutching the medallion of Paladine at her chest. “I have seen what you have done to him, the imprint of your hand on his chest, the five ever-bleeding sores where your fingers once pressed to his breast. He has suffered enough. Do not continue to punish him for wrongs that have already passed. He adores you, is loyal to you—”

“And yet what loyalty do I owe someone who has conspired so thoroughly against me?” Raistlin demanded. He did not regret what he had done, but neither did he wish to think of the pain he had already caused the dark elf. It did not bode well for what must be done at the Spring. “He is my apprentice. He is within my power to command as I choose.”

Crysania’s face contracted sharply, “He is within your power to _teach_ , to _instruct_. I thought you had become friends,” she accused. “These past two years that I have visited the Tower, I have seen you grow close, you and your apprentice and your assistants alike. I was happy for you,” confusion now clouded her gaze, anger giving way to disappointment, “but it seems that all of that disappears in the face of achieving your goal, as it ever has.” She shook her head, and looked up at him, imploring, “I won’t believe it, Raistlin. I refuse to believe that you, whose internal victories I have observed for so long, would cast aside all the love and affection you have received from your fellows for the sake of restoring your sight.”

“Then you are a fool,” Raistlin said, his voice tight, his grip on the Staff of Magius even tighter. He stood tall, his own anger and self-loathing giving him sudden strength. “As you have ever been. Love does not enter into this. I have no consideration, no regard for those in my employ, or under my tutelage.” Crysania opened her mouth as if to reply, but he cut her off with a vicious snarl. “And if you have ever observed anything to the contrary, you were grossly mistaken.”

Now Crysania’s eyes filled with that most dreaded emotion, that look that always seemed to spur the Nothing from its corner with a success that was unparalleled by any other: pity.

“Do not give in to it, Raistlin,” Crysania said, eyes large and dolorous. “I can see its shadow on your face even now. The Nothing,” she shook her head, “do not let it win. You promised yourself. You promised you would not let it control you—”

“I am responsible for the promises I keep,” Raistlin snapped. “Not you.”

“But what will you have left, Raistlin?” Crysania pleaded, passion making her face flush. “If you cast aside your friends as you have implied, who will even remain at your side to enjoy the fruits of your restored sight?”

“That is no concern of yours, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said through clenched teeth. The Nothing laughed again, its voice loud, maniacal. Its whispers were ceaseless, its remonstrations so constant and convincing that Raistlin could not hear the logical fallacies in his own words. He knew that what he was planning was wrong, his own mind was screaming at him to heed Lady Crysania’s words, but that frantic voice was summarily silenced with one clean _slice_ of the Nothing’s claws.

“I do not care,” Raistlin whispered. Lady Crysania’s eyes were wide with regret. “If my apprentice is harmed, if he comes to carry that burden which I know bear,” he sneered, his voice rising to a fierce snarl, as if speaking so would turn his words into truth, “if I cast aside him and all others whom I now associate with—I do not care. I am prepared. I _will_ cast them aside. And I will start anew.”

“And the cycle will begin again,” Crysania said.

Raistlin’s face contracted, confused at her remark for half a moment before he began to laugh, cold, loud, cruel. In his mind, he heard two laughs, his own, and that of the Nothing, mixing, intermingling, each amplifying the other in a dizzying and deadly dance.

“Yes,” Raistlin said, mocking. “The cycle begins again. Perhaps one day it will be broken. Now you understand why I must do what I must do. Each time I enter the darkness, each time the Nothing reaches out and envelopes me, I fall. I struggle. But I emerge from that darkness better than I was before. Like the snake who sheds its skin. I emerge from that darkness having left some part of it behind. In Istar it was my plans for godhood. In Khur,” he smirked, “it will be Realanna’s curse. If I lose more than I bargain for along he way,” he shrugged, “then so be it. If that is the price to cast off this shroud of darkness once and for all,” his dark smile grew, “I am willing to pay it.”

He turned from her then, prepared to leave, but Lady Crysania called out, “Wait! Raistlin, please!”

Something in her voice made him stop. He stood, looking slightly over his shoulder. “Yes, Revered Daughter?”

“Tell me,” Crysania said, almost breathless. Her voice was hesitant, her form seeming small in the shadow of the mighty temple behind her. “What will happen to Dalamar? What will happen if he accompanies you on this journey?”

There was no longer any point in concealing the truth. Any scruples Raistlin might have had, had been eclipsed by the hand of the Nothing.

His voice was flat, hollow as a void. “My accursed sight will be taken from me,” he said. “And it will be given, instead, to him.”

Lady Crysania’s mouth hung open in shock. The hand that held the medallion of Paladine now clutched at it like a frightened bird, and her eyes beheld him with hurt, anger, and fear.

Raistlin was unaffected by her display. He bowed low to the Revered Daughter and then, just as he had come, Raistlin walked away from the Temple of Paladine, walked away from the pristine lawn and down the lanes of Palanthas until he had reached his own Tower, where he would, the next morning, at last seek out his apprentice. What words he said to prepare him, what paltry information he gave, Raistlin was not entire certain. It was as if the Nothing had taken use of his tongue, black and dark as one poisoned, and had lain before the elf a tale of a miraculous cure for his _shalafi’s_ curse. It said nothing of the spirit who guarded the spring, nor of the bargain it would surely strike, and, once their debriefing had been at last concluded, Raistlin had dismissed Dalamar with a cold smile which the elf had returned in kind.

“I am honored that you would have me at your side for such a critical task,” Dalamar said, his eyes glinting with something like mirth. His long hair partially obscured his face as he bowed, then straightened. “And I think you will find that I will serve you well in this endeavor.”

Raistlin’s gaze did not break from his. “I do hope so, my apprentice,” he said. “I do hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
> Raistlin is really good at making really bad decisions.


	5. Lies Cut Short

They would have two weeks to complete their journey into Khur. The wards on the boxes of stasis would last only this long, and neither Lhyss nor Dorark possessed the skills needed to renew them once they had expired. Raistlin was, of course, willing to sacrifice the work they had done on the boxes if need be, but he did not wish to incur such a loss if it could be reasonably avoided. Although their experimentation had been shunted to the back of his mind by the impending quest to break Raelanna’s curse, Raistlin was still very much aware of its import. It was a boon, a bargaining chip to be used for his own devices when he would inevitably find himself alone and friendless, a credit to his otherwise besmirched name—for now he could foresee that it would ever be besmirched. Raistlin could never stray from the path of darkness for long. The Nothing kept him there, and although he had learned to wander from its boggy waters and had enjoyed his time in more placid streams, he always found himself inexorably drawn back to the depths and the mud and the noxious fumes of self-preservation.

And he hated himself for it.

The only consolation was the end result. If he succeeded, if he broke the Curse of Raelanna as planned, the Nothing would lose some of its ground. Its hold on him would loosen, its grip would become all the more slack for the fact that it could no longer enter his thoughts as easily as it once could. When he would gaze upon Crysania, when he would behold his brother or his newborn nephew, he would not feel the ever-present sting that came with watching their decay. That door to the Nothing would be shut, and Raistlin could continue to wade away from it until the next time it managed to pull him under. But at least he would have his sight. At least he would have this success. And he would always thereafter be able to enjoy the world and its people as they had been made to be seen—

And what would he think when he saw his apprentice?

Raistlin pushed the thought away. He would feel no remorse, no shame. He never had. And he never would. He knew perfectly well that this journey would be the end of his time with Dalamar. And if some small part of him lamented the loss of his keen mind and his too-charming smiles, Raistlin ignored it with practiced discipline. Removing the curse was paramount. His relationship with his apprentice was not.

He finished assembling his pack. The rucksack upon his bed was light, and it was flanked by two smaller pouches full of materials Raistlin did not normally carry upon his person—canteens, spell components of the more volatile nature, extra cloth to wrap around his head and face—and he had swapped his velvet robes for a floor length tunic of linen worn over similarly spun trousers. The thin material made him feel strangely exposed, even alone in his own bedchamber. That would have to change. He would be spending the next several days in the company of his apprentice, and Dalamar was the last person he wished to feel vulnerable around...

When he was at last satisfied that he had all that he needed, Raistlin exited his chambers, warded them, and descended to the Tower’s main floor.

Dalamar was waiting for him, Lhyss and Dorark standing nervously to the shadows with several of the Tower’s spectral guardians floating just behind. Dalamar carried the majority of the items they would need for their journey, his own pack large and bulging on his back, but the young elf did not seem to mind. He could bear its weight better than Raistlin could have, and looked far more comfortable in the desert-light clothing Dorark had made for them. Raistlin had known it would be fool-hardy to wear purest black in the heat of Khur, and thus he had instructed his assistant to purchase the linen in a more appropriate shade of gray. It was not a becoming color, on Raistlin at least, but Dalamar still managed, somehow, to wear it without losing any of his usual appeal.

“Greetings, _shalafi,_ ” the elf bowed as Raistlin entered the Tower’s foyer. “I trust you have slept well?”

Raistlin grimaced. He had _not_ slept well. A fact which Dalamar ought to have known by the dark circles under his master’s eyes and the irritable sneer that now crossed his face. The dark elf himself had been the subject of his nightmares, his sleep plagued by all the guilt he could not allow himself to feel by light of day.

“Yes,” Raistlin answered, voice dripping with acid. “I am well-rested, and eager for our journey to begin.”

“That’s all you’re taking?” Lhyss asked. She looked agog as Raistlin came to stand next to his apprentice. “You’ll never make it across the Burning Lands with your pack half-empty.”

“We do not plan to cross them,” Raistlin returned. He had kept both his assistants and Dalamar in the dark about the details of the mission, although Lhyss seemed determined to pester the information out of him. She had spent the last several weeks asking the archmagus if he had yet been able to pinpoint the Spring’s exact location, or if he had determined some way of counteracting the bargain its guardian would strike. Raistlin had expressly forbidden her from speaking about such things to anyone but himself, and thus far he had no reason to believe that she had betrayed his trust. Lhyss may have shown a certain exuberance and gregariousness with her master that many would dare not display, but she would have been an utter fool to betray him. And he knew she was no such thing. “They are not our first stop, in any case,” Raistlin continued.

Lhyss and Dorark exchanged glances.

“Oh?” Lhyss asked, her air of innocence betrayed by the cunning glint in her eye. “Then where _is_ your first stop, master?”

Dorark stepped in, his tone apologetic. “We should like to know where to contact you, if something here goes wrong.” The young man had not changed much since first coming to the Tower. Dorark Alynthine was still tall, thin, and his dark complexion was often flushed in either worry or embarrassment. “You _are_ leaving us in charge of the Tower, after all.”

“A fact which I am painfully aware of, Alynthine,” Raistlin answered with a cold glance at the red-robe. He paused for a moment, all three mages looking at him expectantly. The logistics of their journey had been difficult to calculate. Raistlin could not simply use his magic to bring them to the Spring of the Unspoiled for, as Lhyss had pointed out, the denizens of Khur had differing accounts of where the Spring was said to lie. Thankfully, Raistlin knew someone who had promised they would be able to clarify this matter before he and his apprentice headed out into the vast and unforgiving desert. “Should any issue arise where my express intervention is required, and I do mean _express_ ,” he hissed, perversely pleased to see Dorark squirm ever-so-slightly under his gaze, “you may ask one of the tower guardians to contact Iolanthe of Khuri-Khan.”

Lhyss’ eyebrows shot up, amusement warming the apples of her cheeks. “Iolanthe?” She chuckled, giving her friend a knowing look which Dorark plainly ignored.

“Y-yes, master,” Dorark replied, giving a shallow bow that didn’t quite hide his growing blush. “We will have them contact Iolanthe.”

“And you will continue your duties about the Tower as instructed, you will record your observations on the boxes of stasis in our absence and ensure that the experiment is not disrupted,” Raistlin continued, his tone flat with tedium until he was struck with a sudden thought. “And should anyone come calling,” he said, assured that all present knew of whom he spoke, “tell them that I will see them once I have returned.”

“Yes, master,” Lhyss and Dorark said in unison.

“Very well. Dalamar,” he turned to his apprentice, and was startled to see that the elf’s eyes had already been upon him.

“Yes, _shalafi_?” he returned. There was something in his gaze that Raistlin could not read, something caught halfway between indecision and intrigue.

Raistlin’s look was a mirror, cold an uninviting. “It is time to depart.”

  
  


They would perform the spell in the circle of salt and chalk prepared by Raistlin and Dalamar the night before. It was not quite as grand as the spell that allowed Raistlin to travel through time, but it was a spectacle he knew his assistants would savor nonetheless. Lhyss and Dorark stood at the edge of the casting circle, her face hungry and eager, his face nervous and reserved. Raistlin wondered what expressions they would wear upon his return. Looks of awe and disbelief no doubt—followed swiftly by looks of horror and betrayal.

Raistlin joined his apprentice within the circle, thoughts twisting and swirling unpleasantly as he contemplated what must be done. Spells of teleportation were difficult by nature, and they worked best with only one subject involved. Raistlin was powerful. He was strong in his magic, but even _he_ could not fool the wiles of the spell to transport both himself and Dalamar without taking certain...precautions.

“Are you ready, apprentice?” Raistlin asked, his voice distant, uncaring.

Dalamar smirked faintly. “Yes, _shalafi_ ,” he said. “I believe that I am.”

Raistlin nodded, paying no heed to the heat that rose to his face nor to the amusement that was apparent in the dark elf’s eyes as Raistlin put one arm around his waist, holding the Staff of Magius to the side with the other. Dalamar was slightly taller than he, and the elf’s arms encircled Raistlin with a firmness and ease at which Raistlin inwardly marveled. At least his apprentice had the good graces to keep his face diverted from his _shalafi’s,_ and his tone was professional, even if their position was not.

“Whenever you wish to depart,” he said.

Raistlin wasted no time. Almost as soon as he had spoken, he began to chant the words of the spell. The runes and circles drawn on the floor of the Tower’s largest hall began to glow a blinding white, the air began to grow thick and heavy, and Raistlin began to forget, in the euphoria of the magic flowing through his veins and from his person, who it was that he held, and what it was that he would soon to do him.

The magic began to pulse, the circles upon the floor began to sing, and Raistlin, his spellcasting complete, clung to Dalamar as the fabric of reality seemed to _bend_ and _fold_ upon them. Like a kender trying to stuff an entire chest of drawers into a single one of his pouches, the magic seemed to stuff Raistlin and Dalamar into some tiny pocket, and shoot them out the other side.

There was pain, sharp and unpleasant, and Raistlin soon found himself and his apprentice standing high on the edge of a sun-baked plateau, holding each other tightly.

Raistlin began to cough.

“Are you well, _shalafi?”_ Dalamar asked once it had become obvious that the spasm would not be soon to pass.

Raistlin could not reply. His throat was constricted, shocked at both the sudden leap in altitude and at the jarring lack of humidity in this new environment. Palanthas had been at sea-level. The ridge to which they had teleported stood on the fringes of the Khalkist Mountains, overlooking the arid deserts of Khur. He had known this, he had prepared for this, but there was little Raistlin could do with his rebelling lungs other than give them the time they would need to adjust.

“I would be better,” Raistlin rasped as soon as he was able, the effort causing his throat a stifling pain, “if you would let me go.”

Dalamar did not move. “I think not,” his voice was a purr. He looked down at Raistlin, dark hair framing his handsome face. “You do not seem well enough to stand yet. And what would I do if you took a fall?”

Raistlin snarled, but said nothing. He was practically slumped against the elf now, coughing and hacking into his chest. He could feel the five sores Raistlin had once burned into his flesh through the thin fabric of his robes, the mark of his fingers that would neither fade nor heal. He shuddered. Did it hurt for Dalamar to hold him so? What would happen if Raistlin were to press his hand against the wound even now? Would he recoil in pain? Would he drop his ailing _shalafi_ or would he continue to support his weight as Raistlin’s lungs threatened to suffocate him? 

Perhaps it was better not to know.

His robes were clean and crisp, his arms were sturdy, his slender fingers had entwined themselves in his white hair—entirely unnecessary, entirely inappropriate—but Raistlin found that he did not care. With a weariness that he knew was not from his spellcasting, he eased himself into Dalamar’s embrace.

“You would cast Featherfall,” Rastlin managed to say after some time had passed. 

Dalamar did not, at first, seem to know how to respond, but his confusion was only momentary. He soon burst into a throaty chuckle.

“Yes, _shalafi,_ ” he returned darkly. “I would cast Featherfall.”

  
  


Raistlin’s lungs at last began to acclimate to the heat and excessive dryness of the air, and he was finally able to convince his apprentice that he was able to stand without his aid. He must look foolish, Raistlin thought, weak. Dalamar’s...intervention might have been the only thing that had kept him from falling over the cliff during his fit. It was unlikely that Raistlin would have come to any harm other than the waste of his magic and perhaps a bruised and battered backside if he had not been quick enough, but Raistlin supposed he was grateful for Dalamar’s attentions all the same. Some part of him thought it strange that he should accept the dark elf’s administrations when he had so long cast aside those of his brother, but it was a riddle not worth solving. It would very soon cease to matter, and Raistlin had more important things to consider. Such as their next course of action.

They stood side-by-side now, at the edge of the cliff. The plateau his magic had brought them to was the last mass of land before the ground dropped alarmingly to a floor of yellow desert sand. The Khalkist Mountains, tall and capped in snow, could been seen to the north and west behind them, their peaks concealing the lands where the Dark Queen’s dragon-armies, and his own half-sister, Kitiara, had been banished. Raistlin frowned. He had meant to transport them to the base of this mass, not to its height; they would now have to spend at least some small amount of time in reaching the desert floor. The aforementioned Featherfall should work for that purpose, but Raistlin was perturbed by his mistake all the same. 

Dalamar seemed to notice his displeasure. “A miscalculation can be easily fixed,” he said frankly. “And look,” he smiled and pointed to the base of the cliff, where two large creatures could be seen resting in the shade of the scraggly tree to which they had been tethered. “Camels.”

Raistlin ignored the elf’s boyish grin. “A gift from Iolanthe,” he said caustically. “Her own magic protects the lands around her home, and she bade us enter her domain through more conventional means.”

“Have you ever ridden a camel before, _shalafi_?” Dalamar asked, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“No,” Raistlin admitted, staring down at the creatures with some trepidation. He hesitated before asking, “Have you?”

“Never,” Dalamar answered, his smile growing rueful. “It seems we will both be at a disadvantage _._ ”

“Indeed,” Raistlin replied. He moved cautiously to the edge of the cliff, eyes following its line down as far as he could see. It could not be more than two hundred feet to the ground, and there were no protruding rocks or objects that might get in the way. “Let us delay no more in meeting them.”

“Please, _shalafi_ , allow me,” Dalamar insisted, holding out his hand.

Raistlin regarded the appendage as if it were a poisonous snake. “What?” he snapped.

“I do not wish to offend,” Dalamar explained, his tone smooth and even as he continued to offer his hand, “but you have just completed a most difficult spell. Let me be the one to cast Featherfall.”

“The Staff may cast it on its own,” Raistlin waved the suggestion away irritably.

“Not without at least a little help from you,” Dalamar was resolute. His gray eyes held his, supplicant, “Please, _shalafi,_ I am your apprentice. It is my role to support you. Let me have this chance.”

Raistlin’s eyes narrowed. The Nothing slunk around his heart, alert, patrolling, ready to dig its claws into him at the first sign that his plans had been unraveled, but he needn’t have worried. He could find no trace of pity or mistrust in the dark elf’s gaze, only a professional respect and concern. 

Raistlin shrugged. “Be my guest,” he said.

Dalamar smiled, and took Raistlin’s hand in his own.

Somehow, this was far more intimate than being in his arms.

Raistlin disliked being touched, loathed it at the best of times, and removing the absolute comfort of being enveloped by another person highlighted how strange it was to be handled in such a way. It was both awkward and inticing. Wonderful and unsettling. It was maddening and confusing and he hoped he would never have to do it again.

“ _Pveathrfall_ ,” Dalamar commanded, and both he and Raistlin stepped from the side of the cliff to float slowly, gently, down the front of the plateau.

The camels watched their descent with eyes that were glazed and devoid of any concern. Raistlin wondered, inanely, if they had witnessed this kind of magic before, or if they were simply not intelligent enough to be alarmed at two grown persons stepping off the side of a two-hundred-foot drop. In either case, the camels’ docility disappeared the moment the mages landed, and they soon became the subjects of Raistlin’s bitter resentment and open hostility.

They struggled to ready the creatures. Both he and Dalamar were adept at riding horses, but camels, Raistlin was quick to discover, were no kin to their temperate-weather counterparts. While they had each been dressed with a harness and stirrups and covered by a thick riding blanket, mounting the camels while they stood proved nearly impossible. They would roll and shake and step away from their riders, leaving them to fall, hard, to the hot desert sand, which was as unpleasant to taste as it was to touch. They had to resort to coaxing the creatures to sit with food from their own packs, and even then they each managed to fall twice before finally finding balance on their tumultuous humps. After an hour of fussing, the two mages were at last on their way.

They covered their heads and their faces, protecting themselves from the harsh desert sun. Raistlin was unsure how his golden skin would react to overexposure, and he had little desire to find out now. It was midafternoon, the hottest part of the day, and they had several more miles to ride before they would reach their destination. He turned to Dalamar, wondering what the elf would look like if _he_ stayed out too long in the sun—a honey-sweet persimmon, perhaps. Or an over-ripened tomato.

“What is so amusing, _shalafi_?” Dalamar asked. He was swaying with the erratic motion of his camel as he rode, and the wrappings he wore framed his eyes, made his dark lashes appear even darker.

Raistlin turned from him with a start. “Nothing,” he answered.

Dalamar smiled pleasantly. “If you say so, _shalafi._ ” He was silent a moment, then continued, “To be perfectly blunt, I would not mind if something _were_ amusing you. The lands of Khur are beautiful, but they are a bit, well,” he gave an airy sigh, “repetitive.”

Raistlin made a noncommittal sound. He understood well what Dalamar meant. Aside from the Khalkist Mountains sinking ever more behind them and the peaks of Khuri-Khan rising just as slowly ahead, the horizon was featureless, an expanse of sand tucked between the two competing ranges. There was the odd shrub, the even odder tree, and signs of life were present, but scarce. They saw the occasional hawk overhead, witnessed long, thin snakes sunbathing on the crests of dunes, but no settlements did they find, no Khurians did they see.

“I have no desire to fill the silence with bland inanities,” Raistlin said.

“Then let us speak of something of actual import,” Dalamar returned smoothly. “Such as the Spring.”

Raistlin froze, his body going rigid, which, being on the back of a camel, meant that he momentarily lost his balance, and nearly fell from his saddle. The camel, sensing its rider’s discomfort, shook its head and made noises of distress that were only calmed by a reassuring whisper in Silvanesti by Dalamar.

“What _about_ the Spring?” Raistlin snapped.

“You have said much about it,” Dalamar continued as if nothing untoward had happened. He sat back on his camel, one leg crossed in front of him in his saddle, apparently quite at ease. “And yet you have told me little.”

“I have told you all that you need to know.”

“As my _shalafi_ says,” Dalamar inclined his head respectfully. “But consider my query an indulgence. I have long imagined what wonders the land of Khur might hold. It is not a place that was ever frequented by my people; its history and present-day relations have always been somewhat of a mystery to me.”

“Indeed,” Raistlin replied, still cautious, calculating. He could not divulge the true nature of the Spring, but neither could he completely rebuke Dalamar’s natural inclination to know more about the lands through which they now traveled. Raistlin had rarely, if ever, spurned his academic interests, and to do so now might arouse suspicion in the dark elf. Better to allow his apprentice a glimpse at the truth, better to pull back the curtain by his own hand before the elf decided to pull it down by force.

“I am simply curious, _shalafi,”_ Dalamar continued, turning to Raistlin with genuine interest. “How did this strange and distant land come to house the only means of breaking Raelanna’s curse?”

“ _How_ is not an easy question to answer,” Raistlin said, glancing sidelong at his apprentice. “Raelanna herself was never able to act upon the theories and hunches once outlined in her diary, and there has been little written on the Spring besides. However,” he continued, pitching his voice as if reluctant, “from what I have researched, we may have the gods of neutrality to thank for the Spring of the Unspoiled, Sirrion in particular.”

Dalamar nodded, “Then are its waters...sacred? Blessed in some way?”

“Yes,” Raistlin answered, uncertain himself if he were lying. _Someone_ must have imbued the Spring’s waters with their holy power. “And they have done miraculous things by all accounts, feats unrivaled even by the clerics of Paladine and Mishikal.”

“Strange,” Dalamar said, his brow slightly furrowed. “Sirrion is the maker of flame. Why would he create a spring?”

Raistlin gestured to the the scorching landscape about them, “We are in the land of flame, are we not? And Sirrion is also known as the great alchemist.”

Dalamar looked thoughtful, “Then perhaps there is more to the spring’s water than meets the eye.”

Raistlin nodded, “Precisely.”

Dalamar was silent a moment, his gaze abstracted. “Then are we looking for an oasis?”

“An oasis?” Raistlin frowned.

“Yes, the Spring,” Dalamar explained. “If it is a fount of water in the middle of the Burning Lands, it would have to be some kind of oasis.”

Raistlin shook his head, “No. The Spring of the Unspoiled has not been left exposed to the elements. A shrine has been built around it, a temple. And it is this temple that we seek.”

“Ah,” Dalamar said. His smile was tight. “I see. Thank you, _shalafi._ ” Something flashed in his eyes just then that Raistlin could not quite catch. Hurt, betrayal? He might have felt wounded that his _shalafi_ had not deigned to mention such an important detail until now. A temple conjured a certain image to the mind, and Raistlin could well imagine the questions that Dalamar now allowed to roll silently around his tongue, apparently reluctant to further pursue that line of interrogation. Would there be clerics? Pilgrims? Devotees?

A guardian?

Raistlin shook the thought from his head. No, there was no reason for Dalamar to jump to _that_ conclusion. It did not follow that a temple must be guarded in some way, at least, not in the way that the Spring of the Unspoiled was said to be guarded. The gods protected their own. Just as Paladine protected his temple in Palanthas, so too would any god protect the sacred sites of their worship. There was no reason for Dalamar to think that this temple would be any different, and certainly no reason to think that it would be protected by a spirit so vicious and maligned as the one that they would, in due course, encounter.

The two mages fell into an uneasy silence. Raistlin spent this time internally brooding, his mind unable to escape the dreams and lies fed to him by the Nothing, and Dalamar, should he have turned to look at his _shalafi_ , would have seen a man in the throes of a great and terrible conflict.

“Look, _shalafi,_ ” Dalamar broke their quietude at last. The sun was large behind them, their shadows stretching long and thin toward the darkening horizon. He pointed to a cluster of small, dark objects were the sand met the sky. “Tents.”

“It seems that we have reached today’s destination,” Raistlin returned.

“Thank Nuitari,” Dalamar exclaimed in relief. Raistlin shot him an ill-humored frown, but the dark elf only laughed. “Don’t tell me your backside is not as sorry and sore as mine, _shalafi._ These creatures are a nightmare.”

Raistlin ignored the remark, determined not to feel the warmth that accompanied Dalamar’s good humor. He must focus on the mission. He must remember his goal.

Two more miles they rode, the sloping desert sand flattening into a steppe plain beneath their camels’ feet. Here the vegetation was more prominent, and Raistlin and Dalamar at last had their first glimpses of the Khurians. Children ran from tent to tent, laughing and screaming and playing, while parents and elders sat around their fires, cooking fragrant dinners in iron and clay pots and speaking idly with one another in a tongue that Raistlin had never before heard. Some of the tents looked like they had just been pitched, while others, larger and made of finer materials, had the air of permanent fixtures about them. Long grass grew around their edges, birds had built nests in the conjunctions of their joints, and paths had been made by well-worn shoes leading up to their doors.

One such tent stood apart from the rest, occupying its own space for perhaps half an acre in all directions. It was large enough to house an entire family, although Raistlin knew it to be home to only one person at present. Its canvas was thick and well-kempt, decorated in an intricate design in ivory, black, and blue thread, and the symbol of magic had been woven into the door-flap of the tent itself. Outside of this tent was an outdoor kitchen littered with pots and pans, centered around a fire and a smoking clay stove to which someone was, rather lazily, attending. She sat in repose upon a stuffed cushion, a large rug keeping her brown, sandaled feet free of the sandy soil. She held a wooden spoon with one hand, still wet with some umber-colored substance, and with the other she flipped through the book upon her lap, lips murmuring delicately as she read.

Raistlin’s camel announced their presence by way of a snort, and Iolanthe looked up from her spellbook.

“It’s you,” she exclaimed. She closed the book, set the spoon upon the stove, and strode forward to meet them.

“Yes,” Raistlin said dryly as the woman approached. Her black robes, similar to that which Raistlin and Dalamar wore, fluttered around the curvature of her form, revealing just the kind of figure that had always driven his brother Caramon to madness.

“How was the journey? You’re a little late,” she continued as she took hold of his camel’s neck and began to guide them to a small stable on the other side of the tent. Dalamar’s camel followed. “I expected you hours ago.”

“The camels were… a bit of a challenge,” Raistlin answered.

Iolanthe laughed, “First time, eh? Well, I can’t say that I’m sorry. The protective spells I’ve put around this place were designed to keep the dragon-armies out. I wasn’t about to remove them for _you_ , Raistlin.”

“I understand,” Raistlin said. His eyes scanned the settlement. It was comprised of, perhaps, four dozen tents, and curious eyes had already noticed their approach. Many of the children had ceased their playing to stand at the village’s end, staring at the black-robes with giggling interest as their parents called them back to their fires. The village was pleasant. Peaceful. Boring. “I see that you are doing well for yourself, Iolanthe.”

She laughed. “By my standards, yes, although I can see that you disagree.”

Raistlin did not reply, for in that moment Iolanthe directed his camel to sit, and the archmagus nearly fell from the saddle.

“You’ll be feeling that tomorrow,” Iolanthe said with a knowing look as Raistlin stood gingerly from the camel’s back. She approached Dalamar’s camel, and commanded it to sit as well. “And you must be the apprentice,” she said, her smile growing as she beheld the handsome dark elf. “Dalamar Nightson.”

“The same,” Dalamar replied, and Raistlin was alarmed to see his gaze linger on the woman’s face. He stepped down from the camel with grace and ease, and bowed low to her. “I am at your service, Mistress Iolanthe. And I have looked forward to our meeting.”

“You know of me?” Iolanthe’s violet eyes widened as she adopted a cunning smile.

“Only by reputation,” Dalamar replied, respectful, reserved. “Mistress Ladonna—”

“Bah, let’s not talk of the Conclave,” Iolanthe interrupted him by way of lacing her arm through his, locking elbows. “Especially not of my superiors.” 

She reached out and put her other arm through Raistlin’s. He recoiled visibly. The Nothing hissed in his ear, and Raistlin almost hissed aloud in return.

Iolanthe laughed, “I’m glad to see you again, too, Raistlin Majere. Now come, stop being such a spoilsport and have some supper. We have a great deal of business to discuss.”

Raistlin, hardly able to walk for how much his back and legs ached and completely dependent on the support of his Staff and Iolanthe’s arm, was forced to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, Chapter 5, or as I like to call it: Raistlin vs. the camels. And oh hey Iolanthe's in this fic. Who knew? I always liked her, and I really wanted to weave her into this story. If you haven't read Dragons of the Hourglass Mage yet...just...go do that. Now. Put the fic down. Go read it. The way this woman interacts with Raistlin makes me laugh uncontrollably. You won't be disappointed.


	6. Supper's Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned, dear reader, that there are spoilers for both Dragons of the Hourglass Mage and Dalamar the Dark in this chapter. If you have not yet read either of these works, you may want to pause your perusal of this fic, and go enjoy some canon instead ;)
> 
> (Also, the chapter title is 100% a reference to the Genesis song.)
> 
> Alright. Let's get to it!
> 
> ************************************

Iolanthe led them back to the outdoor kitchen. The area was open to the heavens, having neither ceiling nor walls save for the eastern side of the tent and the myriad of large potted plants that Iolanthe seemed to have cultivated around the kitchen’s outer perimeter. A fire crackled in the middle of the space, the clay stove burning a few yards away. A pleasant smell filled Raistlin’s nostrils as they approached—spices and vegetables and something far sweeter underneath—and he suddenly realized how hungry their tiresome journey had left him.

He sat upon one of the many cushions that had been strewn about the space, pulling his linen robes more tightly around him. The temperature had already begun to drop with the setting of the sun, and the blankets he saw piled to one corner told him that it would be an even colder night than expected. Dalamar came to sit next to him, and the two mages sat in silence as their hostess returned her attentions to their supper. It was not long before Iolanthe presented them each with a bowl of thick vegetable stew and a plate of flatbread that she had pulled fresh from the clay stove and blackened over the open flame. No spoons were they provided, although Raistlin was certain that Iolanthe had such tools in her possession, leaving them to sip and slurp the stew or else scoop it into their mouths with the toasted bread, a practice which required far more skill and concentration than Raistlin normally expended on his meals. He scowled as Iolanthe watched his struggles from her side of the fire, her amusement apparent on her features.

“Is everything to your liking?” the wizardess asked, still with that knowing look.

“Yes, very much so, thank you,” Dalamar replied, taking to the stew with gusto. Raistlin frowned. He had rarely seen the elf eat with so much vigor. He was reminded, unpleasantly, of his brother.

“It is more than adequate,” Raistlin said coolly.

“Too heavily spiced for you, I take it,” she mused, then continued with a wink. “Although I did try to keep the heat to a reasonable level.” 

Raistlin’s scowl grew. Her mannerisms had changed little since he had last seen her in Nereka, but four years had, in fact, affected her appearance somewhat. Her thick, black hair had grown long, and she had adorned it with miniscule braids and artfully placed beads. The khol she wore around her eyes and through her brows seemed darker than he recalled, and her face, before it succumbed to the decay of his hourglass eyes, was, perhaps, more lined. Such changes had only enhanced her charm, and she was still a great beauty—a fact which Raistlin had apparently forgotten and which now caused him some degree of alarm. He hadn’t anticipated the half-lidded looks that passed between her and his apprentice, and he was not entirely certain how to handle them.

“I can tolerate the heat,” Raistlin replied through burning lips.

Iolanthe laughed, loud, garish. She lifted her gaze to his apprentice, giving a sly smile. “You must be proud of your master, Dalamar. His discipline is most commendable.”

“It is,” Dalamar replied. The night was still but for the calls and chirps of the nocturnal beasts and the distant voices of the Khurian settlement, and the dark elf had only contributed to that silence. “And I have much to learn from his example.”

Raistlin set his bowl, still half-full of stew, upon the ground with a clank. “What is this place, Iolanthe?” he asked. “What have you been doing here?”

“ _ This place _ ,” Iolanthe replied, plainly amused that he had ignored his apprentice’s attempt at flattery, “is the  _ Salat-amin _ , the home-between-mountains. I stay the whole year round. The Mikku come and go as they please.” 

“And they do not oppose your presence?” Raistlin asked.

Iolanthe shrugged, “They are not as wary of our kind as the other peoples of Khur, nor indeed, as the other peoples of Krynn. I make and sell potions, I trade and barter herbs. I even dance, from time to time,” she flashed a smile at Dalamar that sent a jolt through Raistlin as quick and furious as lightning. “But mostly,” she resumed, sitting back on her cushion and sipping the sweet cinnamon tea she had brewed, “I read, and I study, and I am left to my own devices.”

“Such as erecting a field of protection the size of a small nation,” Raistlin countered critically. He knew well that her life on the fringes of the Khalkhist mountains was not as simple and idyllic as she had made it seem. 

Iolanthe sipped her tea, “Yes, such as  _ that. _ ” She regarded him for a moment, head tipped to one side. “You have the entire Shoikan Grove to protect you, Raistlin. I see nothing wrong with equipping myself with the same kind of armor.”

Raistlin smiled unpleasantly, “That depends entirely upon who you wish to keep out.”

Iolanthe’s expression fell. “My enemies are many, as you know,” she answered, fear tinging her voice. The hand that reached to stoke the fire seemed to hesitate. “And they neither forgive, nor forget.”

“Such as my sister,” Raistlin nodded.

“Yes,” Iolanthe answered, gaze lost in the flame. “Such as her.”

“Talent Orren is not here,” Raistlin observed.

Her eyes hardened, “No. No he’s not. He left, years ago. Said the land didn’t suit him. The rotten old sod,” she spat, her eyes suddenly full of a vehemence that reminded Raistlin of just what she had done to the last of her lovers who had mistreated her. Ariakas had never seen that Ray of Frost coming. She had frozen the Emperor like a block of ice for all that he had done, and had saved Raistlin himself in the process. “May the Abyss take him.”

“Perhaps it will,” Raistlin returned. 

Iolanthe waved her hand. “Enough about me. I’m old news. What keeps the Master of the Tower busy these days? Aside from attempting to regain your sight.”

“Nothing of interest,” Raistlin sipped his own tea.

“I hardly believe that,” Iolanthe returned with a scoff. “I wonder if I were to ask your apprentice,” she looked to Dalamar, voice suddenly laced with honey, “would he tell me the same?”

“I would tell you as my  _ shalafi  _ commands,” Dalamar answered humbly.

Iolanthe chuckled, “Loyalty is a fine trait in an apprentice, especially among us black-robes.” She looked to Raistlin. “You are exceedingly lucky to have him by your side.”

Raistlin met her gaze steadily. What was she trying to imply? “He is equally lucky that I allow him to  _ be  _ at my side.”

“And what about the others?” Iolanthe continued, unfazed by his cryptic glare. She ladled more of the fragrant stew into her bowl. “These assistants of yours. How did you manage to play mother-hen to a pair of red-robes?”

Raistlin sputtered, almost choking on his tea. Iolanthe laughed as he began to cough.

“I think it is your cleric who betrayed you,” she explained. “Word somehow reached my mistress, Ladonna. I can only guess by whom.”

“Par-Salian,” Dalamar answered for his  _ shalafi,  _ who was still coughing.

“He meets with her, you know,” Iolanthe continued, leaning forward, languid. The beads in her hair clanked, and Raistlin caught scent of her perfume—heavy, rich. “Every month, he goes to the Temple of Paladine to see her. He never visited Elistan. I wonder what they talk about.”

“My affairs, clearly,” Raistlin replied, still coughing. He could well imagine her and that old fool of a wizard, sipping wine and trading secrets in the marble halls of the Temple while the choir practiced their hymns—speaking of him, ridiculing him, laughing at him. The Nothing growled. “And I am no mother-hen,” Raistlin snapped.

“Are you not?” Iolanthe blinked in mock surprise. She turned to Dalamar, “And what say you, apprentice? What kind of master is Raistlin Majere?”

Dalamar hesitated for only a moment before replying in a smooth, even tone. “A fine one,” he said. “My  _ shalafi  _ does much for us. I quite agree that I am lucky to be in his service _.  _ As are Lhyss and Dorark.”

She nodded pleasantly. “Sounds better than that lot from the Tower of Nereka,” she said. “Do you remember them Raistlin? Nuitari take their souls but they were dunces.”

“The Tower of Nereka?” Dalamar asked, eyebrows rising. He looked from Iolanthe to Raistlin, bemused, “My  _ shalafi  _ has never made mention of this Tower.”

“It was of little import,” Raistlin replied. Something about the way the fire glinted in the dark elf’s eyes made Raistlin’s stomach go suddenly in knots.

“I should like to hear of it, all the same,” Dalamar looked softly at him. His lips parted as he smiled. “If my  _ shalafi  _ would oblige.”

Raistlin felt heat rising to his face, and this time he knew it was not from their supper. The realization sent a quake of anger through him, and his throat began to constrict with panic. “I will  _ not  _ oblige,” he snapped. “In fact,” he stood to his feet, taking the Staff of Magius in one hand, and addressed Iolanthe, “I have grown tired this little fête. You promised to share a map of the Spring. I am eager to see it.”

“No need to be hasty, Raistlin,” Iolanthe replied from her seat. She swept a portion of her long, dark hair behind her shoulder. “It is Khurian custom to wait for the meal to conclude before taking on matters of business.”

“The meal  _ has  _ concluded,” Raistlin snarled.

Iolanthe took a piece of flatbread from her plate, dipped it in the stew, and then slowly, deliberately, brought it to her mouth, and took a dainty nibble. “I don’t believe that it has.”

Raistlin glared down at her in disbelief. It was little wonder she and Kitiara had gotten along so well—they both delighted in upsetting him. He had half a mind to say to the Abyss with her and her map and leave for the Spring this very night, but his body was too sore from their day’s ride to even entertain the thought. No, he would simply have to tolerate her vexations. And he  _ did  _ need the map. He had no desire to wander the Burning Lands with his vague, half-understanding of the Spring’s location. It could mean his death.

Raistin stared at her a few moments more and then, like a sulking cat, stalked back to his cushion, and resumed his seat next to Dalamar. 

“Very well,” Raistlin said, terse. “I will observe the Khurian custom.”

“I do so appreciate it, Raistlin,” Iolanthe replied, delighted. She sat up on her cushion, and poured herself another cup of tea. “Now,” she continued like an old maven sharing the day’s news, “I know much about  _ one  _ of you, or at least, a much as I’d like to know,” she said in a half-undertone, “but I’m afraid I know next to nothing about you, Dalamar.”

Dalamar set down his own bowl and plate, both empty, and met her gaze with polite indifference. “What does my mistress wish to know?”

“Everything,” she smiled winningly, and again Raistlin felt the sharp sting of jealousy in the pit of his stomach. “Who are you? And where do you come from? And how in the abyss did you manage to spy on Raistlin Majere and get away with it?”

Dalamar’s face went cold, his expression closing off immediately, “I see you know something of me after all.”

“Oh everyone knows about that,” Iolanthe said, dismissive. Her look became cunning. “Or everyone with Ladonna’s ear, at any rate. But you must admit that you’ve made a most mysterious figure of yourself.”

“Have I?” Dalamar asked. He shook his head, “It has certainly not been my intent.”

“No?” Iolanthe mused. “Then let us take this opportunity to unravel the mystery that is Dalamar Nightson. Or Argent, or whatever name it is you go by these days.”

“My history is not of particular interest,” Dalamar deflected. There was tension in his eyes, conflict in the way he clenched his jaw.

“Come now,” Iolanthe insisted. “You’re a dark elf. You must have some story worth telling. And I so rarely get away from my home these days. You’re the first member of our order I’ve met since the end of the war.”

Dalamar looked to Raistlin, uncertain. A thought seemed to pass between them, and Raistlin knew without hearing it what his query would be.

Could Iolanthe be trusted?

Raistlin’s mind grew clouded. The prospect of learning Dalamar’s past when he was so close to betraying the elf was not a pleasant one. Better to keep him at a distance. Better to break any attachment that he might have felt for him—and yet what could he do? Forbidding such a harmless conversation was certain to garner suspicion in either or both of his companions.

And, after all, he truly  _ did  _ wish to know...

Hardly perceptible in the flickering light of the fire, Raistlin nodded to his apprentice.

Something seemed to seep out of Dalamar at this response, leaving the elf free of whatever burden he had before been carrying, and, in a voice that seemed at once lost and full of resolve, Dalamar began to tell his tale.

“Very well. I will oblige my mistress,” he started. He settled deeper into his seat, and continued,“To answer your first question, I am from Silvanost. And I was born,” he paused, as if still weighing the words he was about to speak, “to House Servitor.”

Iolanthe grimaced, real sympathy deepening her voice, “I’m sorry.”

“As am I,” Dalamar said without humor. “But unlike so many others of that House, I was fortunate enough to make an escape.”

Raistlin listened with rapt attention as Dalamar described a history that was not dissimilar from his own. Like Raistlin, Dalamar’s proficiency in magic had been apparent from an early age, but had been stifled and stunted by matters entirely outside of his control. For Raistlin, it had been stunted by poverty, by inadequate tutelage, and an overbearing brother. For Dalamar, it had been stunted by the ancient elvish inclination to doctrine and an archaic system of class, both of which had been rigidly enforced. Raistlin fumed as his apprentice described how he had had to beg for the opportunity to develop his talents, how he had been taught only the most rudimentary of spells and had been forced to remain a glorified butler for a house whose only merit was the name to which they had been born. He was shocked to learn of his clandestine visits to long-forgotten caves where dark and powerful spellbooks had been stored, and was surprised to hear of the role he had played in the attempt to keep Silvanesti free of the dragon-armies. The attempt had failed, of course, but Raistlin felt at least some small amount of relief upon learning that the elves had given him deference for his skills as a magic-user, at least on this one occasion.

“I fled to Ergoth with the rest of my people. I made friends there, and found myself with more freedom than I had experienced before, thanks to my countrymen’s view of the Kagonesti. When at last I returned to my homeland,” he continued, “and found it in the dark and twisted remnants of Lorac’s dream, I could no longer bear to hide who I was. I went to the cave where the dark spellbooks had laid hidden, and I pledged myself to Nuitari. The rest,” he shrugged, “is history. I was thrown out of Silavensti, labeled a dark elf. I was given my Test,” his eyes hardened to molten steel in the reflections of the fire, “performed several tasks at the behest of the Conclave, the last of which was to spy on the very man who had saved my estranged homeland from the thrall of the dragon orb—”

“I did not save your homeland,” Raistlin countered harshly. No one had ever before professed such a thing. “I was but one of many who entered the nightmare and fought Cyan Bloodbane.”

“But they could not have done it without you,” Dalamar returned with passion, facing Raistlin for the first time since he had begun his story. Longing tinged his voice as he spoke. “The Silvanesti sang your praises for years—at least, until word reached them that you’d taken the black robes. But I believe there are many still who hold you in high esteem.”

Raistlin scoffed, “No elf with any sense would praise me. I did nothing for their benefit.”

“I know that,” Dalamar returned, his passion cooling somewhat. “I know you only did what was needed at the time, and even then, only because you had something to gain from it. But that does not change the facts. Silvanesti is in your debt,” he gave Raistlin a grim smile, “as am I.”

Raistlin said nothing. It did not feel right. Others had been by his side, others had fought the nightmare with him, and certain as it was that Cyan Bloodbane would not have fallen without Raistlin’s help, so too was it certain that he would not have survived that encounter without the aid of his former companions. He had not been as strong then as he was now. He had relied upon them, had counted upon them. Dalamar’s praise was misplaced. As was the praise of the Silvanesti.

“There now,” Iolanthe said, leaning back on her cushion and setting down her tea as she stretched. “I think we all feel a great deal more acquainted with each other than we did before.”

The remark brought Raistlin back to the present. “And yet you have told us nothing of your own history,” he said coolly.

“And it appears that our supper is now concluded,” Iolanthe continued as if Raistlin hadn’t spoken. She stood to her feet, smoothing the folds of her robes, bangles and bracelets clanking. “I think we’d better have a look at that map now.”

“That would be prudent,” Raistlin said, standing as well. His legs still ached, and he leaned heavily on the Staff as he came to his feet.

Iolanthe turned to the tent behind them, and untied its flap. “Come inside, then. It’s in the study.”

“Will you have need of me,  _ shalafi _ ?” Dalamar asked, coming to his feet.

Raistlin froze. Dalamar’s mild, servile attitude took on an entirely different meaning now that he had shared his past. He wondered briefly if the elf resented his  _ shalafi  _ for perpetuating a role that he had surely come to hate.

“No, Dalamar, thank you,” he answered.

“We won’t be long,” Iolanthe added with a grin. “I’ll be back shortly. And then you and I can clean this lot.” She gestured to the pots and pans strewn about the space.

“Of course, Mistress Iolanthe,” Dalamar bowed.

Perhaps it was just Raistlin’s tired and uncertain imagination at work, but the archmagus thought that he saw, for one wild moment, the shadow of something dark and possessive flicker across Dalamar’s eyes as Iolanthe placed one hand on the small of Raistlin’s back, held the tent-flap open for him, and ushered him swiftly inside.


	7. Simple Equations

The map, as Iolanthe had called it, was little more than a hastily scrawled sketch in aging brown ink on a sheet of lambskin, no larger than the width of Raistlin’s hands. The inscriptions were in Khurian, which Raistlin could neither read nor write, but Iolanthe was quick to point out where the mapmaker had indicated the location of a fountain in the middle of the desert.

“That is not the symbol commonly used for an oasis,” she explained, her voice soft. Her study was small, one cozy wing of the large tent partitioned off by sumptuous silks and thick brocades slung over a pair of vented room dividers. There were cushions in place of a chair, and a low table which had been cleared off save for a short stack of books and a small pot of incense, which, although unlit, still tickled Raistlin’s nose and throat as he sat before it.

Iolanthe leaned over his shoulder, far too close for comfort, and pointed to another symbol near the first. “But it is close to one.”

“Then there is an oasis nearby?” Raistlin asked, annoyed by her hovering. She smelled of citrus and spice. He much preferred the scent of jasmine.

“If the map is accurate,” Iolanthe replied, stepping back. “But I’ll leave that for you to decide. The man who sold it said it belonged to his father. He was supposedly an adventurer of some sort. Not that I’d ever heard of him. It could very well be a hoax.”

Raistlin eyed the books on the table: an atlas, a history of the Mikku tribe, and another work by Keha Tondo. Clearly she had been studying the Spring since the last letter she’d sent. He looked to Iolanthe. “And what is your opinion on the matter?”

The witch’s eyes danced in the candlelight. “I believe that you are in way over your head, archmagus.”

“About the map,” Raistlin snapped.

“I said what I meant,” Iolanthe continued, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight to one side. “You, Raistlin Majere, are in way over your head. Perhaps in more ways than one.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Raistlin glared at her, the Nothing roaring loud in his ears. 

“Nothing,” Iolanthe answered, and Raistlin turned from her in cold anger, determined to ignore her uncanny word-choice. Her smirk was heard if not seen, “But I would consider your next course of action carefully, if I were you.”

“My actions are not of your concern,” he replied shortly.

“Perhaps not,” her tone was no longer conniving, her amusement vanishing in an instant. “But from what I have seen of you this night, I cannot help but think that you do not know the true nature of the power you seek.”

His own smile was cold, his eyes still trained on the map before him, “Believe me, Iolanthe. I know exactly the true nature of the power I seek.”

“But Dalamar does not,” she stated.

Raistlin’s voice was even, cool, “That is correct.”

“He will find out,” Iolanthe continued, her tone cautionary. “He will realize, sooner or later, what kind of mortal danger his master has led him to.”

Raistlin was about to give a scathing reply when he realized what Iolanthe had said. Now he did turn to face her. “Mortal danger?”

“Yes,” Iolanthe blinked, apparently taken aback at his reply. “The Spring of the Unspoiled is said to have healed life-threatening diseases, to erase all manner of wounds and mortifications, to bring people back from the dead—”

Raistlin waved his hand, “I seek none of this. I wish only to restore my sight.”

Iolanthe shook her head, and she lowered herself to the only other cushion in the room, sitting perpendicular to Raistlin, her attractive face drawn into a deep frown of worry. “It doesn’t matter. The Spring  _ can  _ do these things. You’ve heard about the equal exchange?”

“Tondo described it in their book, yes,” Raistlin answered hastily. “The spirit that guards the Spring asks that a transference of equal value take place in exchange for the power of its waters.”

“It asks,” Iolanthe clarified, her expression dark, “for something equal to the powers of the  _ Spring _ .”

“What do you—” Raistlin began to ask.

And then he understood.

“No,” Raistlin said, shaking his head in disbelief. The Nothing laughed in his ear. “No, that cannot be. Tondo’s accounts—”

“All ended with the death of one of the two people who sought to use the Spring,” Iolanthe said, smiling sadly. “I can see that you are genuinely shocked, but your logic is flawed, archmagus. It’s a simple equation. Two people go in. One comes out. I have seen it myself.”

“You have seen it?” he demanded, one hand grasping at her upper arm, clinging to her. “Tell me. What did you see?”

Iolanthe glared down at his grip, her nose wrinkling in a sneer of disgust. Raistlin retracted his hand, somewhat contrite.

“Please, Iolanthe,” he said to the woman, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I must know.”

She let out a sigh, brow heavily furrowed. “Very well,” she said, “but I warn you that it is not a pleasant tale—”

“I care not how pleasant it is,” Raistlin spat. Fear had taken hold of him, the Nothing’s claws tracing idly around his heart. He could not believe it. He  _ refused  _ to believe that what she had said was true. “Tell me what you know. Leave nothing out.”

Iolanthe leaned forward in her seat, her voice low, pitched so as not to carry. “This was a long time ago, Raistlin, when I was just a girl. There was an old woman, a great shamaness, who lived among the Mayakhur. She was beloved by all, but none loved her quite so much as her youngest granddaughter, Til. When the shamaness’ health began to fail, when her joints became so stiff and rigid that she could hardly stand, Til built her grandmother a sled, hoisted her into it, and left for the Spring. Her family begged her not to go. Her brothers and sisters tried to stop her, but, being gifted with a bow, she scared them off, shooting arrows at their feet. She would heal their grandmother and bring her home, Til told them, and nothing would stop her.” Iolanthe paused, some dark memory clouding her face before she continued, “But something did stop her. The Guardian.”

Raistlin shivered.

“The demon that guards the Spring offered Til the same that it offers to everyone who passes through its temple,” Iolanthe said.

“Which is?” Raistlin whispered.

Iolanthe’s eyes met his, “A life for a life. A life in exchange for the chance to save another’s.”

Raistlin again began to shake his head, “But I do not seek—”

“It does not matter,” Iolanthe countered, anger flashing in her gaze. “You have read about this spirit, have you not? You know whose servant it is? Do you truly think that it would take any payment less than the very life, the very soul of the one who seeks it?”

“I had thought…” Raistlin began, then stopped, realizing the truth of Iolanthe’s words. Sirrion was one of the gods of neutrality, yes, but he was also an alchemist. Equations were the stuff of his making. What was alchemy, if not the pursuit of exchanging one substance for another? Would the equation be true if the demon’s bargain were not equal on both sides? The Spring could restore life. Therefore life must be given to access it. He scowled, “Never mind. What happened to the girl? What did the spirit do?”

“What words it used to strike its bargain, we cannot know,” Iolanthe murmured. “Suffice it to say, that neither Til nor her grandmother returned to the Mayakhur. One of her brothers eventually went looking for them, and he found their remains just outside the spring. They had both perished, but,” her voice was a whisper, “on examining their bones, he found that Til’s head had been adorned with a crown of flowers, long since dried, and in her hands had been placed her bow and her quiver of arrows, folded neatly over her chest. The grandmother,” she shuddered, “lay next to her, bones huddled and bare. It was plain that she had survived her granddaughter, but she had had neither the strength nor the means to return home.”

“And you heard of this tale?” Raistlin asked, hungry and desperate for some way to disprove her. “When you were young?”

“It is not a tale,” Iolanthe answered, bitter. “Not in that sense.” Her eyes captured Raistlin’s, dark and full of sorrow as the candle flickered. “Til was my sister.”

Raistlin’s eyes widened, his own heart shrinking in fear from the Nothing that was now encircling it like a beast on the hunt. 

“You swear it,” he demanded, voice on the edge of hysteria. His eyes bore into hers. “You swear this to be true?”

Iolanthe did not flinch. “I do,” she answered. She gave a sad smile, “Believe me, I wish it weren’t. Til was a sweet girl,” she continued. “I think of her often. And of my grandmother, whose powers I am said to have inherited.”

“Then it is true,” Raistlin whispered, gaze lost and full of sudden terror. “If we go, if we seek the Spring—two will go in. One will come out.”

“Yes,” Iolanthe nodded.

Raistlin’s tongue seemed to have gone strangely numb. He should say something. He should  _ do  _ something, but his lips would not obey.

The Nothing held him in check.

His plans were crumbling. His meticulously laid schemes were ripping apart at the seams. How could he seek the Spring of the Unspoiled, how could he rid himself of his accursed vision, knowing that it would kill the one he offered in exchange for its waters? Passing the curse of Raelanna from himself to Dalamar had been heinous enough, and it had taken no small amount of flawed and fractured rationalization for Raistlin to come to terms with it. But  _ killing  _ him.  _ Destroying  _ him. Was it worth it? Was it still worth the chance for Raistlin to leave the darkest part of his daily existence behind him, forever?

Raistlin was horrified to find that he did not know.

Horrified that he could neither feel revulsion nor resolve at the thought of sacrificing his apprentice, Raistlin stared at his own blackened and quarried heart with a terror he had not felt since first returning from his ruinous path to godhood. He did not care  _ which  _ it was. He did not care _ which  _ was the path he ought to take—he sought only to take it. That he could think with equal calm of the sight of Dalamar’s corpse as he could think of his witty and pleasant smile shook Raistlin to his very core. He began to laugh, loud, high-pitched, manic. That old fool had meant to teach him compassion. What had he done instead? The curse had made the sight of death and decay so common that Raistlin had ceased to fear it. He had seen so many faces wither and rot and molder that the process no longer had any effect upon him. And he had never even  _ seen  _ Dalamar as such. He saw, when he looked upon his apprentice, his elvish grace and beauty only slightly marred by death’s embrace, as if a light shone on him too brightly, as if his shadow had been stretched unnaturally long. But now, thinking of the Spring, of making the exchange to remove the very curse that had so desensitized him—Dalamar’s corpse meant nothing. Nothing. Nothing! And he wished, desperately, pleadingly, that this curse had never come to him. He did not want this. He did not want to lose one of the few people he had come to respect and, yes, hold with some abstracted form of regard. But Raistlin knew himself. And he knew he would be an utter fool to think that there was any kind of barrier between him and what he wanted.

And he wanted the curse removed.

“As I said, Raistlin,” Iolanthe said, her voice low. “You are in way over your head.”

Raistlin did not disagree. He turned from her kohl-lined gaze, afraid he would soon see it tarnished by damnable, unrelenting pity. “This changes nothing,” he hissed.

“I know,” Iolanthe answered, voice curiously devoid of judgement. If Raistlin was surprised, he did not show it. Indeed he was so lost in his own inner turmoil that he had barely processed the woman’s words. She stood suddenly, her jewelry clanking, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am not foolish enough to interfere in any affair of yours, Raistlin, but I  _ am  _ just foolish enough to beg you to reconsider—”

“That is enough,” Raistlin shrunk from her touch. It stung like venom. “Leave me,” he said.

“But Raistlin—”

“Leave me!” he returned with heat.

Iolanthe removed her hand, and regarded him coldly.

“Of course, archmagus,” her tone was suddenly formal, distant. “I shall leave you to your studies. Do please join us when you have concluded your research. You may leave the map where it is when you have finished.”

“Yes,” Rasitlin snapped, hardly able to keep his voice from breaking. “Fine. Now go.”

“As you wish,” Iolanthe said.

She bowed, brushed aside the curtain of fabric that served as an entry to the space, and swept neatly under, leaving Raistlin alone with his thoughts, and with the Nothing.

  
  


It had not taken long to study the map, nor to corroborate its authenticity. Indeed, the volumes Iolanthe had supplied along with the old parchment seemed to have been cultivated for that very purpose, and Raistlin again wondered if the witch knew more about the Spring of the Unspoiled than she had shared thus far—and she had already shared much. He had no reason to doubt her family’s involvement with the Spring. Iolanthe may have been willing to bend the truth for her own means, but she did not strike Raistlin as the type of person who would construct such a fabrication from thin air. No, her story had the air of truth about it, to Raistlin’s great alarm.

Desperate to keep his mind from thoughts of his apprentice, Raistlin set himself to the task of transposing the map to a scale more suitable for his use. Compass in hand, he traced the lines on his own parchment, murmuring the measurements to himself in hopes that they would somehow drown out the voice of the Nothing in his ear. This would prove only a partial success, for while copying the map kept his mind busy, it did nothing to quiet the storm that raged within his soul.

But a partial success was better than none.

This was not the first time Raistlin had had to guard himself from his own inner voice. And it would not be the last. When he had left his brother in the Blood Sea to die, when he had lured Crysania into the past with the understanding that she would perish in their attempt to face the Dark Queen—he had become something of an expert at shutting down his own moral scruples. Better than most of his kind, if Iolanthe’s reaction was any indicator. Raistlin shuddered. Caramon had lived to forgive him, Crysania too, thanks to the intervention of the elder Tasslehoff. But Dalamar...the elf would not live to have that chance, not if Raistlin was to remove the curse.

He doubted he would have forgiven him anyway.

Dalamar had withstood his  _ shalafi’s  _ punishment without complaint, but, Raistlin thought, only because his desire to learn from him had been greater than his pride. He would do anything for the magic and the power that it promised, and thus he had bitten his own tongue, and had done nothing to retaliate when Raistlin had called his bluff for working with the Conclave. Yet, that still, small voice that liked to intrude upon his otherwise dour thoughts began to speak, was there not something  _ else  _ to Dalamar’s humility? Something in the way he smiled and laughed with his  _ shalafi  _ that might point to a warmth, a friendship between them that his apprentice might have been reluctant to lose?

It mattered not, Raistlin decided. They were  _ both  _ soon to lose it, whatever it was.

The only path was forward.

Satisfied that he was once more in control of his emotions, or at the least, that they were no longer controlling  _ him,  _ Raistlin pocketed the new map, took the Staff of Magius in hand, and exited the study.

Iolanthe’s tent was dark and littered with books and blankets and cushions, bottles of wine and vials of other unnameable substances pushed to one side of her living space. Raistlin could still smell the cookfire burning out of doors, and he could see its flickering glare illuminating the night from the other side of the canvas. Laughter reached his ears, loud, startling. He frowned. Staff making shallow indentations in the soft soil, he exited the tent and rounded the corner to the outdoor kitchen—and immediately gave a sneer of disapproval. 

Dalamar sat on the ground, his legs crossed before him on the rug below. Iolanthe sat behind him, hands hard at work as she braided his long, silken black hair in a loose but attractive style. Raistlin’s mind burned. Jealousy flared, envy rattled in his skull.  _ Her  _ hands were not meant for that purpose.  _ Her _ lips were not meant to whisper so softly in his ear.

Then whose were?

“They made my  _ shalafi  _ their librarian?” Dalamar was saying, apparently quite at ease as he sat before her. 

“Yes, and more fools they,” Iolanthe answered, voice low and seductive as she worked.

Dalamar snorted. “Did he ever find anything of value at this Tower? Or was it all as pathetic and senseless as its occupants?” He looked...happy. Happier than Raistlin could ever recall. The last time he had seen Dalamar smile so warmly had been while eating Tika’s raspberry tarts at the Inn of the Last Home two years before, with Raistlin at this side.

Iolanthe looked up from her work, eyes locking with Raistlin’s. There was a challenge in her expression, as if she knew  _ exactly  _ what sort of reaction their proximity had elicited from him. “Ask him yourself,” she said.

Raistlin gave Dalamar no time to respond. He stepped into the light of the fire. “I did not,” he said with more vehemence than he had expected. “There was nothing of value in that wretched place.”

Dalamar’s eyes followed him as he approached. He looked neither ashamed nor contrite at the situation his  _ shalafi  _ had found him in. No, Raistlin realized with sudden trepidation, the elf looked...rather pleased with himself.

“I have finished with the map,” Raistlin said tersely, ignoring Dalamar’s perplexing gaze. “Where may I rest?”

Iolanthe completed the plait with a strip of leather pulled from one of the pockets of her robes and smoothed it down, pulling away errant strands that would not stay within the braid. “Anywhere,” she answered, her eyes still on her task. “You are my guest. Where would you like to sleep?”

Raistlin scowled. “Inside. In a bed,” he quipped.

“No beds here,” Iolanthe answered. Her smile was knowing, “But I can arrange something else.”

“Then do it,” Raistlin snapped. Seeing Iolanthe’s eyes dance with amusement, he added with a weary sigh, “Please.”

“Of course, archmagus,” she said with an air of false reverence. “And what of the apprentice? Shall I set you up for the night as well?” Raistlin knew that the lewd arch of her eyebrow as she looked over Dalamar’s shoulder was intentional. His anger grew.

“I shall be perfectly fine out here,” Dalamar said. The braid Iolanthe had made looked most becoming as he shifted back and placed it casually over one broad shoulder.

“Out here?” Iolanthe echoed.

“Yes,” Dalamar said evenly. He looked to the heavens, clear, unobscured, above. “It has been years now, since I have had the pleasure of sleeping under the stars. I confess that I have missed it greatly.”

Iolanthe turned to Raistlin with a shrug. “ _ Elves,”  _ she mouthed.

Raisltin was not so accepting of Dalamar’s wishes.

“Do not be foolish,” he said, impatience apparent in his every syllable. “We are strangers in this land, it would be unwise to so widely advertise our presence.”

Dalamar did not seem affected his ill humor. His tone was supplicant, but unoffended. “These lands have been warded, as you said yourself,  _ shalafi.  _ And Iolanthe has already assured us that we are most welcome here.”

Raistlin’s frown grew.

“He’s not in any danger,” Iolanthe was quick to intervene. Her eyes once again met Raistlin’s. “Why not let him do as he pleases?”

She did not say,  _ “It’s the least you could do before you lead him to his doom,”  _ but Raistlin understood her meaning all the same.

“He does not need my permission,” Raistlin snapped. He looked to Dalamar. “After all, I am only his master _.  _ What reason could he possible have to obey me?”

The color seemed to drain from dark elf’s face, and he stared at Raistlin in shock. “ _ Shalafi,  _ I assure you I—”

“No need to explain yourself, Dalamar. I understand you perfectly well,” Raistlin continued, his tone at once acidic and lofty. “You seem so willing to make your own way of things. Perhaps you are ready to leave my tutelage.”

Now the elf’s face flushed in anger, “Of course not, I—”

“Very well, I shall give you one last chance,” Raistlin said, beholding his apprentice coldly. “Sleep under the stars if you must, but do not forget, my dear apprentice, that when I give you a command, I  _ expect  _ you to obey it.”

Defiance flashed across his face, outrage made his expression sharp and cutting, but it seemed that Dalamar was ultimately unwilling to cross words with his  _ shalafi _ , and he slumped forward, mouth set into a rigid line.

“Yes,  _ shalafi _ ,” Dalamar said. But although his shoulders fell and his words were full of rue, Raistlin could still see the elf’s pulse beat rapidly in his neck, could still see the single bead of sweat that dripped from his crown and his silver eyes that hardened to ice in the light of the low-burning flame. 

“Goodnight, Dalamar,” Raistlin intoned, turning from him as a creature who is used to the darkness turns from the sight of the rising of the sun. “I will see you in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. The stakes are a little higher now aren't they? Oh however will our dear archmagus cope???


	8. Oasis

Raistlin tossed and turned upon the makeshift bed within Iolanthe’s tent, alone and vulnerable in the chill of the night. Many things he saw in his sleep. Many sordid tidings filled his mind. He saw a temple, a building of bone rising from beneath the sand. He saw himself, footprints behind and before him, trudging the same path he had always trod. He saw a man by his side whom he did not recognize: dark of skin, an Ergothian, wearing the trappings of an army general. He blinked, and suddenly the man had become Caramon, another blink, and Lady Crysania walked by his side. Her face was pristine, beautiful, untouched by his accursed vision. One more blink, and the cleric’s white robes had been replaced with black, and her face had morphed into that of Dalamar. His visage was decay itself. Maggots crawled through his receding nose, bone exposed itself beneath his brow, skin peeling and curling back around his lips—Raistlin recoiled from him, finding himself no longer on the desert sand, but upon the shores of a fountain as Dalamar approached, one hand reaching for his neck.

 _“Shalafi_ ,” the dying elf said. _“Shalafi!”_

Raistlin awoke with a scream, bolting upright and panting as if he had just climbed every stair of the Tower. Iolanthe’s answering grunt could be heard from across the tent, where her own sleeping quarters had been partitioned. The witch neither spoke nor rose to check on her guest, and Raistlin, finding himself too terror-stricken to return to sleep and too fearful of meeting his apprentice outside the tent should he leave, lay back down upon the floor, and stared at the ceiling of the tent until sunrise.

Dawn found him, Iolanthe, and Dalamar sitting around the cookfire, the rising sun already warming their bones. Raistlin spoke little. Iolanthe and Dalamar spoke much. They prattled about the other mages they had met through the Conclave, Dalamar informing her of many of the events that had transpired at Wayreth since her self-imposed exile to her homeland four years before, Iolanthe sharing what she secrets she knew of the Conclave in turn. She gabbed as she cracked a handful of spotted eggs that Raistlin recognized as belonging to a quail, and set them to fry in an iron pan. She served the eggs with flatbread, buttered grains, and spinach, and topped all but Raistlin’s serving with a generous pinch of a bright red powder.

“A little heat to wake us up in the morning,” Iolanthe teased as she passed a bowl to Dalamar.

The elf took the meal gratefully. “No tarbean tea, I take it?”

“Fresh out,” Iolanthe answered, already tucking into her own meal as Raistlin scooped at his inexpertly. He was still not used to maneuvering the flatbread. “I’m afraid the Mikku are not as fond of it as I am. They seldom have it among their wares.”

“Ah well,” Dalamar gave a wistful sigh. “I, at the least, slept well last night.”

Indeed, when Raistlin looked sidelong at his apprentice, he appeared perfectly awake and refreshed. He had unmade Iolanthe’s braid, and had tied his long hair back by the cord she had used to secure it, drawing attention to his high-sitting cheekbones and his slightly sun-browned face. He seemed so at ease, sitting on the fireside cushion and sipping the bright herbal tea their host had brewed—he was practically glowing.

Iolanthe laughed, “The stars will do that to you, will they?”

“They will,” Dalamar answered with a small smile. He added, “As will a guilt-free conscience.”

Raistlin choked on a piece of spinach. He threw his bowl to the ground and began to cough violently as Dalamar looked on, quite calm.

“Are you unwell, _shalafi?_ ” he asked, respectful, professional. “Would you like me to brew your tea for you?”

“No,” Raistlin rasped, still coughing. “It will,” another cough, “pass.”

“Very well,” Dalamar finished his own meal and stood to his feet. “Perhaps I can ready the camels for our departure. If mistress Iolanthe would oblige.” He smiled at her.

“Of course,” Iolanthe said. She stood and took Dalamar’s arm through her own. “Watch the fire, will you Raistlin?”

Raistlin, still gasping for air and wondering what in the Abyss his apprentice had meant by his remark, made no reply.

They left within the hour. Iolanthe and Dalamar parted like old friends, each promising the other to write and hoping to arrange some future meeting between them. Raistlin’s own parting was decidedly less warm. He ensured Iolanthe that he had not forgotten his own copy of the map, she ensured him that they had packed enough water to last the week, and both said their goodbyes with a mutual grimness that did nothing to calm Raistlin’s inner dread.

“I will see you when you return,” Iolanthe said quietly from next to his camel.

Raistlin looked down at her, his back and legs already aching from the uncomfortable saddle, his tired and beleaguered soul already aching from something else entirely. “Yes,” he answered in kind. “When I return.”

Then, taking up the reigns of his mount, Raistlin led them into the desert.

They passed through the settlement of the Mikku with much ado. Children and adults alike came to wave them off, shouting words of encouragement that Raistlin could not understand. He wondered what Iolanthe had told them about their purpose here. Did they know where they were bound? Did they know what terrible deed would take place once they had reached their destination?

Did Dalamar?

His comment over breakfast had shaken Raistlin, had made him doubt his apprentice’s apparent ignorance of his plan, but Dalamar had said nothing, had made no other allusion to any knowledge of the Spring’s true nature since, and Raistlin had, by the time the sun was high in the sky, already written it off as pure coincidence, nothing more. Dalamar seemed perfectly at ease aboard his camel’s back as they entered the Burning Lands. True that they spoke little, but, Raistlin reminded himself, what was there to speak of? The landscape east of the settlement was even more featureless than the lands they had passed through the day before, and by the end of their first day’s journey, Raistlin could have been utterly convinced that he and Dalamar were the last two creatures on the face of the earth. No vegetation did they pass, no signs of life did they see. The Khalkist Mountains had all but disappeared, leaving the two mages alone to traverse the flat expanse of sand by the sole guidance of the monstrous sun.

Iolanthe had warned them of its potency. She had bid them not to travel in the heat of the day, to find shelter for the hours of its zenith, but there _was_ no shelter to be found in the Burning Lands. A simple cantrip helped to keep the air around them cool, but there was nothing to soften the burning intensity of the sun’s rays upon their skin, nor to stop their camels from floundering beneath its might. The witch had equipped them with a tent, used by the Mikku and the other peoples of Khur, which they pitched each noon and night and which housed Raistlin as its sole occupant. Smaller and far less grand than the one used for Iolanthe’s home, the tent she had loaned to them was little more than ten feet across, hardly accommodating for the two grown wizards’ use. Dalamar, for his part, had been more than happy to continue his habit of sleeping under the stars, offering his _shalafi_ the chance to properly rest. Even so, Raistlin often found himself awake long before him, stepping from the tent and nearly onto his slumbering apprentice with a snarl and a sharp word that did not seem to faze Dalamar in the slightest. He would rise with a docile, “Good morning, _shalafi,_ ” before dutifully dismantling the tent and tethering it once more to Raistlin’s camel.

His timorous attitude continued as the days wore on. Never once did Dalamar complain, never once did he express any dissatisfaction with their circumstances or with the path that they rode. He did not ask to see the map which Raistlin kept beneath his linen robes, nor did he ask any questions about the Spring of the Unspoiled. When he did speak, it was of items of immediate concern: Where would his _shalafi_ like his tent pitched? What time must they depart? Was he quite certain he didn’t need another drink of water? Raistlin answered him just as perfunctorily, wondering if Dalamar were being intentionally distant, intentionally servile. Did he regret telling his _shalafi_ about his life in Silvanesti? Or was his sudden lack of warmth the result of something far graver…

A guilt-free conscience, Dalamar had said. Raistlin’s own conscience was certainly not that, despite what the Nothing tried to tell him. For all the silence between the two mages, there was never a moment’s silence in Raistlin’s mind. With only his never-quenching thirst and the nightmarishly searing sun to distract him, the Nothing was left entirely free of the cages Raistlin had worked for two years to construct. All the Somethings he had developed—all the miniscule things he had come to relish that would keep the Nothing at bay in its own dark corner—had all crumbled, had all been utterly blasted by the temptations of the Spring.

And what more could he do? He had already made his choice. He had already decided, the moment he had heard Iolanthe’s tale—no, it had started long before that, hadn’t it? He had been willing to transfer the curse of Raelanna from himself to his apprentice. He had been willing, from the inception of this plan, to reclaim his sight from the unjust will of Par-Salian, to put his own goals and well-being ahead of Dalamar’s. And he always had. Raistlin had _always_ considered himself before others. Even when the Nothing had receded, even when his days had not been so dark and maligned as they had now become, Raistlin had never been under any delusions as to his own selfish intentions. And when the first decision had been made, so too had the second. There was no line in the proverbial sand. He had already committed to one. He must now commit to the other.

No matter the cost. 

No matter the consequence.

And so he kept to himself.

Alone and lonely as he had ever been, Raistlin wandered that weary road next to his apprentice, both ignorant and achingly heedful of his presence. He felt his nearness like the physical manifestation of his terror, a mirror that echoed his own fears back to him each time he so much as glanced in his direction.

And so he took care not to look at him.

As they rode the Burning Lands, as the desert opened its barren breast to them, Raistlin kept his eyes upon the knife-sharp horizon. When they broke their fast, he gazed upon the kettle, upon the fire, upon anything but the elf who had shared this road with him so deep into perdition, and when they stopped for their noontime rest, Raislin kept his eyes upon his spellbook, his mind temporarily distracted from the incessant ramblings of the Nothing and the fears amplified by the face of his apprentice. Dalamar, of course, studied alongside his _shalafi_ , the two silent as they had ever been these endless days upon the sand. But if he took the rare opportunity to glance sidelong at what his master studied, Raistlin took no notice. His nightmares had only become more vivid with time, and Raistlin was certain that, were he to look upon his own face, he would find his appearance even more sallow and neglected than usual.

For he had begun to realize what his dreams now portended.

The ending was obvious. The Spring of the Unspoiled would mean the end of his apprentice, and his death was no more pleasing to see in dreams than it would be to witness in the days to come. But the march. The footprints in the sand. The dark-skinned man that always began at his side. Where had he seen such things before? And why did the sight of their tracks fill Raistlin with such a terrible and irrational sense of fear?

The answer had come to him one night.

Pheragas.

The man was Pheragas, the gladiator who had been doomed to perish, selected by Fistandantilus to lead him through the Dwarfgate War, the role that Raistlin, had he not turned from his plans at the behest of the elder Tasslehoff, would have elected Caramon himself to play. In another time, in another place, Pheragas had made his own desperate trek. With Fistandantilus and Denubis, Pheragas had traversed the lands of Abanasinia, following his master to his doom. 

Memories that Raistlin _knew_ were not his own had begun to surface at this realization, hazy recollections of things that had never happened to him and yet _must_ have happened had begun to swirl and merge and coalesce in his mind. Was he riding his camel through Khur with Dalamar, or was he crossing the lands between Pax Tharkas and Thorbardin with Pheragas? Dazed, confused at such thoughts, it was all Raistlin could do to close his eyes, and try to recall himself to his senses.

But he was not always successful.

Looking within induced its own special kind of terror. Visions came to him, whether induced by the heat, the sun, or the Nothing that seemed to be running rampant in his mind. His gaze turned inward, he saw blasted horizons, wasted landscapes, footprints that stretched evermore in both directions...

The eerie pink sky of the Abyss.

“No!” Raistlin opened his eyes with a start. He was sitting in his saddle, the movement of his camel slow, its rocking apparently gentle enough that he had been coaxed into an uneasy sleep.

“Are you quite alright, _shalafi?_ ” Dalamar asked, unperturbed, from his own camel. He had covered all but his eyes with this head-wrapping, and his voice was muffled by the cloth.

“Yes,” Raistlin gasped. “I am fine.” He tried to take stock of their surroundings, but it was a useless endeavor. The horizon looked the same in all directions. They had already had their noon-tide break, and the sun was still high in the sky. “Why did you not wake me?” he snapped.

“Forgive me, _shalafi,_ ” Dalamar answered. “You have slept so ill of late. I thought you might need the rest.”

“You thought wrong,” Raistlin answered sharply, as annoyed with himself as he was with his apprentice. “Did it not occur to you that we are looking for something that does not want to be found? That we must rely upon the map in _my posession_ to find it?”

“Of course, _shalafi,”_ Dalamar replied, still unfazed. He gave a slight bow of his head. “You can be assured, you did not sleep long. I would have awoken you if the need had arisen.”

Raistlin glowered at his apprentice, but said nothing more. His mind was still in the grips of the Nothing, the nightmare leaving its maddening shadow upon him. He had never seen the hellish landscape of the Abyss, but the elder Tasslehoff had shared his memories of the Dark Queen’s plane through Raistlin’s own spell. To think that he might once have walked those lands, that his own footsteps, echoed in his dreams, might once have crossed the Abyss itself in pursuit of his selfish end. That he would have left his brother behind, that he would have left Lady Crysania dead and blind and still-bleeding on the floor of its shifting pink sands while he marched on toward his self-serving goal—

And was this goal any different?

“ _Shalafi,_ look,” Dalamar said suddenly.

Raistlin looked to the northward horizon, peering across the desert skyline. “I see nothing,” he said.

Dalamar pulled the protective veil away from his mouth. “There are trees,” he continued. “Palms and bushes and flowers.”

“A mirage,” Raistlin said, dismissive. He urged his camel on. “We will not waste our time.”

“No, _shalafi,_ ” Dalamar insisted, bringing his camel closer to his. “I see birds, and I can hear their call. A mirage could not imitate such signs of life, surely.”

Raistlin turned to look at the elf, eyes narrowed, “No,” he conceded. “It could not. Very well. Lead the way, apprentice, and let us see what we find.”

They turned their camels north, and it soon became obvious that Dalamar’s assessment had been correct. First heralded as a patch of green against the otherwise stark yellow sand, the oasis seemed to grow and expand as they approached. This was no feat of magic, Raistlin knew. Rather, its seemingly supernatural appearance was the result of having spent the last five days on the barren desert sand, and the sudden emergence of so much life and so much _green_ had thoroughly overwhelmed their senses. The oasis itself was a pool of water some thirty feet across, of indiscernible depth, surrounded by a ring of foliage four or five trees thick on all sides. It was interspersed, as Dalamar had noted, with bushes of bright, colorful flowers, and it was loud with the cheerful songs of the birds that roosted in its canopy and the low belches of the toads that could be seen wading in the shallows of the water, apparently enjoying a respite in the overhanging shade. The two mages dismounted outside the ring of trees, and together they led their camels gratefully to the pool at its center.

Pleased that they had come so close to their destination, Raistlin took the canteen that he kept upon his person, bent down next to the drinking camels, and began to take his fill. The water was not pungent, and its surface was clear, reflecting the mid-afternoon sky with perfect clarity. The sun sparkled across its even plane, glittering in a thousands fractions as Raistlin waited for the canteen to fill.

A shadow passed over him.

“Well, _shalafi,_ ” Dalamar’s reflection could now be seen in the glimmering water. His voice was hollow, and deadly soft behind him. “I don’t see any sense in prolonging the inevitable. We both know how this journey ends, don’t we?”

Raistlin froze, momentarily caught off guard by his apprentice’s proclamation. He gripped the Staff of Magius at his side, considering his options for half a second before calmly, purposefully, screwing the cap back onto his canteen, setting it down in the sand, and rising to his full height. “I believe that we do,” he turned to face him.

Dalamar’s face was twisted into a bitter smile, eyes flashing with danger. His pack was already on the ground, and his arms were outstretched and glowing before him. “Then let’s say we get this over with, shall we?" 

“If you insist,” Raistlin answered, unmoving. He wondered vaguely how long Dalamar had known of his _shalafi’s_ plans for him, and why he had chosen this moment to reveal himself. “But surely you can see the futility of such a battle. You cannot hope to defeat me.”

“You are right, _shalafi_ ,” Dalamar replied, eyes boring into his. “I cannot.”

And with this he _lunged_ forward, sending a blast of energy at Raistlin that the archmagus narrowly avoided.

But his attack was not over yet.

Another blast followed the first, and another, and another, and another, a ceaseless string of energy thrown at him with the force of an otherworldly hurricane. Raistlin countered each in turn, absorbed them into the magical shield he had erected, but the barrage was so swift, so fast, that the archmagus hardly had time to draw breath, let alone make an attack upon his assailant.

At last the dark elf’s spell ended, and Raistlin’s vision cleared to reveal that Dalamar had not yet moved from where he stood. A few muttered words, a few tendrils of magic strung together, and dark missiles exploded from Raistlin’s fingertips.The barrage of magic circumvented the elf, who had already shielded himself from the attack and who was now sprinting up to Raistlin’s left, hands now glowing with the unmistakable crackle of lightning.

Seeing Dalamar’s plan, Raistlin twisted his body and plunged the Staff of Magius into his middle, breaking easily through his protective spell and sending Dalamar flying into the frightened camels. The beasts took off with alarmed cries for the other side of the pool, birds shooting into the air above them. Raistlin paid them little heed. Turning to his fallen apprentice, he readied another spell. With precision and ease, he sent a wave of dark energy that bound the elf tightly to the ground. Unable to rise, unable to move, Dalamar lay sprawled upon the sand, looking at his _shalafi_ with a defiance that was tinged with fear.

Raistlin smirked. “I suppose that I should not be surprised,” he said, voice calm. “Was it the witch who told you? Has that conniving desert snake at last moved against me? You may speak,” he commanded, releasing the spell by fractions.

Dalamar gasped as his powers of speech returned. He grimaced, still struggling against the spell that held him pinned on his back as Raistlin approached. “Iolanthe told me nothing,” he panted, chest heaving. “I overheard you, that night, in her study. The walls of her tent are thin, _shalafi._ I simply sat and listened from the other side.”

Raistlin nodded. He might have foreseen this. “Foolish of me not to take precautions. But it is no matter.” He stood over Dalamar now, looking down at him with no trace of emotion in his hourglass eyes. “Now you know. And now you understand. You have but one purpose to me, Dalamar. It is a shame,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee before him. His hands brushed aside the dark linen that had been jostled out of place by their brief encounter, revealing the five bleeding sores upon his pale white chest. “You were a most competent apprentice,” he murmured. He touched his fingers to their respective scars, and Dalamar gave a satisfying cry of pain. “I do not know where I shall find another.”

“You won’t,” Dalamar hissed, and then, so quickly that Raistlin had no time to react, the elf rolled hard to side, took a handful of sand, and flung it at Raistlin’s face.

He choked, coughing, struggling for air as the sand obstructed his throat and caught in his eyes. He could not not open them for the pain, he could not _breathe_ for the agony. Blinded and furious that Dalamar had used such a tactic against him, Raistlin flailed about with the Staff, hoping to feel the satisfying _clunk_ of wood hitting flesh—and instead feeling a blast of air that sent him flying _hard_ to the sand. It was as if their roles had been reversed. Now Dalamar advanced upon him while Raistlin lay helpless and coughing upon his back, eyes blinded by the sand and by the agonizingly bright sun overhead. But Dalamar did not use magic to restrain him. No, Raistlin was surprised to feel the elf’s hands take hold of his wrists, to feel his knee upon his stomach, using his natural-born strength to overwhelm the frail and still-coughing mage.

“I apologize for taking such crude measures, _shalafi_ ,” Dalamar purred. “The Conclave surely would not approve of such trickery in a battle between mages, but with my own life on the line, how else could I have possibly hoped to defeat you? The greatest mage that ever lived…”

“Coward,” Raistlin managed to cough. His eyes had all but flushed the sand from his vision, and he opened them, painfully, to see Dalamar’s face looming over him, black hair loose and cascading down to brush against his own.

“Perhaps,” Dalamar answered, unconcerned. His eyes seemed to be wandering around Raistlin’s face, as if taking in his features for the first time. They lingered on his jaw, on his bruised and slightly swollen lips. “But you see, I am not yet willing to give up this life that I have fought so hard to keep. Others have tried to take it from me. Others have tried to deny me my place in this world. All have failed.” His mouth quirked into a deadly smile, “And so will you.”

And with a speed and fury that stunned the incapacitated archmagus, Dalamar lunged forward, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where things start to get...interesting ;)


	9. I'll Hang You Higher Than Before

Raistlin was too stunned to fight or resist the dark elf's kiss. Eyes wide open, he stared at the canopy of palms until some instinct told him that this experience would be far better with his eyes closed, with his lips parted, and with his head tilted back ever so slightly…

He snapped his eyes back open.

With a snarl of rage, he wrested his hands free from Dalamar’s grasp and bellowed the words to a spell. Chains made of red light bound themselves to his apprentice, carrying him up and away as Raistlin came quickly to his feet. 

“What. In the  _ Abyss _ . Was that?” he demanded. He brought the tip of the Staff of Magius to the dark elf’s throat. Dalamar, floating several inches off the ground and encircled by the magical chains, met Raistlin's gaze steadily, and gave a lopsided grin. 

“Something I've been wanting to do for some time,” he answered. “Consider it my last rite.” His eyebrow quirked, “Unless you would consent to a repeat.”

“I would not,” Raistlin snapped, although something inside him insisted that such an occurrence would not be unwelcome. His skin felt flushed, his heart beat fast, and the Nothing seemed to have frozen in its place, torn between the wonderful feeling lingering on his lips and the confusion and betrayal of Dalamar’s sudden assault. He could still smell jasmine in the air around them…

He thrust the Staff at the underside of the elf’s jaw. Dalamar tilted his head back steeply, never losing eye-contact with his  _ shalafi.  _

“What is the meaning of this?” Raistlin managed to hiss. He was shaking, he realized with a cool wave of shock. “What in the name of the gods could you  _ possibly  _ hope to accomplish?”

“As I said,  _ shalafi _ ,” Dalamar returned, his voice strained as the chains tightened themselves around him. “I was merely fulfilling a wish I have had for some time—”

“How long?” Raistlin demanded. He pressed the Staff harder into the soft flesh at his throat.

“Years,” Dalamar gasped, eyes growing wide at the gesture. “Since the beginning. But it matters little now. I see plainly how my attentions have been received.”

“Indeed,” Raistlin snapped, and he whipped the Staff away abruptly. He needed to think. He needed to breathe. Too much had happened in too little time. Dalamar knew the secret of the Spring, knew that their journey would mean his end. And yet he had followed him into the desert, had kept this knowledge of Raistlin’s betrayal to himself until—until what?

“Why did you wait?” Raistlin demanded.

Dalamar’s expression was one of smugness mixed with regret. “One does not typically confess one’s affections for their superiors,  _ shalafi, _ at least, not until their hand has been forced,” he muttered.

“I am referring to the Spring,” Raistlin replied through clenched teeth. “If you have known since we parted ways with Iolanthe then  _ why  _ have you remained silent?”

“Truthfully,  _ shalafi,  _ I had hoped to buy myself some time,” Dalamar answered, his tone practical. Long tendrils of hair fell into his eyes. “Although I knew such a chance to be small, I had hoped that you would change your mind about this endeavor, as you did your last.”

Raistlin scoffed, inwardly shaken by the suggestion. “My last endeavor was entirely different. I abandoned my plans only because they no longer served to meet my goals.”

“And destroying me meets your goals,” Dalamar smiled grimly.

“It does.”

Dalamar’s expression grew malicious. “Forgive me,  _ shalafi,  _ but I find that hard to believe. Do not forget who it is that sleeps outside your tent, who it is that hears your horror-stricken cries throughout the night.” His head tilted to one side. “I know that you have your doubts,” he pried. ”You are not as far from abandoning this journey as you might think.”

“Insolent apprentice,” Raistlin countered viciously, “I will  _ not  _ abandon it.”

“Very well then,” Dalamar conceded with a theatrical sigh that Raistlin knew was intentional. “Say that I am wrong. Say that you are as cold and calculating as the world has long claimed you to be. You still do not see reason. On what scale is the restoration of your sight weightier than the life of your own apprentice? On what scale can you measure something so immense and profound as my existence?”

Again Raistlin thrust the Staff of Magius beneath his jaw, its crystalline orb glowing with ominous light.

“On  _ my  _ scale,” he hissed, somehow both pleased and horrified at his own response. “Where  _ I _ am judge and adjudicator, where my very life, my very soul, is on the line.”

“Your soul?” Dalamar’s brow furrowed. “I fail to understand.”

“How could you?” Raistlin returned bitterly. He looked over Dalamar’s form: whole, strong, and handsome. “How could you understand what it is like to have been cursed as I have? Weak, frail, and  _ wretched  _ that I am _. _ ”

“You are none of these things,  _ shalafi, _ ” Dalamar answered quietly. He looked over Raistlin’s form in turn, his wandering gaze as intense as it had been before he had so unexpectedly pressed his lips to his master’s. Gray eyes met golden. “I would know.”

Raistlin was not entirely sure what to do with this remark. He knew what Dalamar was trying to imply, but he rejected the thought so thoroughly that it only served to anger him further.

“You are a fool,” he muttered.

“No more than you—”

Raistlin  _ smacked _ his face with the Staff. The golden dragon’s claw caught the elf’s lip, and blood began to trickle down from it in earnest.

“Apologies,  _ shalafi, _ ” Dalamar said, bemused for some reason that Raistlin could not identify. He smiled, the injury only adding to his appeal. “But it is the truth. Only a fool would debase himself as much as you. The greatest mage who ever lived, the Master of Past and Present—reduced to such a state over one inconsequential curse.”

“It is of  _ great  _ consequence,” Raistlin answered, taken aback by his apprentice’s flippancy. His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. “Can you truly not see why I wish to end it?”

“I can,  _ shalafi, _ make no mistake,” Dalamar sighed, his expression now more sober. “The curse of Raelanna is terrible. It is only natural that you wish to break it. But your  _ soul, shalafi?  _ What danger is the curse to your soul?”

“That is not your concern,” Raistlin snarled.

“As payment for removal of said curse,” he groused, “it is  _ absolutely  _ my concern.”

Raistlin glared at him. He had grown tired of this conversation. He owed Dalamar nothing, neither recompense nor understanding for what he planned to do.

His voice dripped with acid. “Does the coin expect explanation from the purse-master?” Raistlin sneered. “Does it expect comfort before it changes hands from one man to the next?”

Dalamar’s face blanched, and Raistlin realized too late that his remark had struck a different chord than he had intended. A coin changing hands. A servant made to do his master’s bidding...

“Then I am forced to make my own conjectures,” Dalamar said, voice tight. “You grow weary of isolation. You grow tired of the constant reminder of death on the faces of those you care for.”

Raistlin scoffed, “I grow tired of nothing.”

“You cannot deny it,  _ shalafi, _ ” Dalamar replied, passion warming his face. “Why else would you be so eager to remove the curse?”

“Because it is beneath me,” Raistlin answered with a sneer. “Because I have no use for it. Because I have no  _ need  _ to be reminded of compassion and mercy _. _ ”

Dalamar lifted his arms, magical chains clanking. “Do you not?” he smirked.

Raistlin  _ whacked  _ the Staff across his other cheek, blood flying with the motion.

“No,” the archmagus replied with false calm. “I do not. Nor do I need my own apprentice to call my motives into question. If I say that I will remove the curse, then by the magic I will remove it. It does not matter  _ why. _ ” 

“Or  _ how _ , apparently,” Dalamar murmured. His tongue lingered over the cut in his lip, and he winced. “If I may offer my own input to your modus operandi—”

“You may not—”

“I think it would behoove you to at least have some explanation in place for when the inevitable occurs.”

Raistlin regarded him with suspicion. “What do you mean?”

“I am not the first you have had this discussion with,  _ shalafi, _ ” Dalamar explained quietly. “Nor will I be the last. What will you tell your assistants? They are certain to ask where I’ve gone. That Lhyss is sharper than even you give her credit for. I’m certain she knows of the Equal Exchange. Perhaps not to the same level of accuracy as Iolanthe, but you must admit that she will question my whereabouts.”

“I will tell her the truth,” Raistlin answered coldly. “I will tell her and Dorark that you accompanied me as far as the Spring, but that you perished at the hands of its Guardian.”

“And what of Lady Crysania?” Dalamar insisted. “Or your brother? You may tell them the same. But will they believe you,  _ shalafi _ ?” His smile was cunning. “I rather suspect that they won’t.”

“That is enough,” Raistlin snapped. 

“At the very least you will want to think of some sad, pathetic story to tell the guardian who haunts the Spring,” Dalamar continued as if Raistlin had not spoken. “That way you can be sure that the same lie will be told to all parties, should anyone come asking for me.”

“Silence,” Raistlin snarled, again thrusting the Staff beneath his jaw. “No one will ask for you. No one would dare.”

Dalamar’s look was of grim understanding. “Because they trust you? Because they know your word is as golden as your skin?” He shook his head, “You would have your friends’ fear long before you would have their trust.”

“I have no friends,” Raistlin stated.

“Then why does it matter?” Dalamar countered with a humorless laugh. He brought his gaze to his, eyes insistent. “Why break the curse? Whom do you wish to gaze upon with eyes unclouded by death if you are as lonely and friendless as you say?”

Raistlin’s scowl deepened. It was no concern of Dalamar’s whose constant facade of decay disturbed him the most…

Realization dawned.

“You are jealous,” he hissed. He lowered the Staff, dark laughter growing as he stepped nearer to his apprentice and sneered. “You  _ like  _ being the only one immune to my sight. You fear what would happen if I began to see others the same as I see you.”

Dalamar’s face flushed, and his smile was self-deprecating. “I confess that I  _ am  _ jealous,  _ shalafi _ ,” he said. “Most of all of a certain cleric who has somehow garnered your attentions.” He lifted his gaze, hunger in his eyes as their faces hovered mere inches apart. His voice was falsely sweet as he continued. “Is she to blame for this mess? Do I owe my unjust fate to her?”

“Your fate is of my own doing,” Raistlin said. He stepped back from his apprentice with a cold grin, feeling at last some of his old confidence return. Dalamar was nothing of concern. He was young, foolish, green. He had no true affection for his  _ shalafi,  _ and even if he did, it was no matter. Not now. Not when he was so close to reaching his goal. Dalamar’s interest was driven by envy, greed, lust—things that Raistlin was more than eager to cast aside.

He stood tall, the Staff of Magius in hand. “But take comfort, Dalamar. Your days of envy will soon be over. You will not live to see any more of Lady Crysania, or of her supposed attentions to me.”

“I take no comfort,  _ shalafi, _ ” Dalamar said softly. He struggled once more against the glowing red chains. “Nor will I go quietly to my grave. You would not dare to make an enemy of me,” he whispered. “You would not dare to give me up to the creature that haunts the Spring.”

“Oh, but I would, Dalamar,” Raistlin said, and just to make his point, he commanded the chains to tighten. “And I  _ will _ .”

Dalamar cried out in pain, and, when the chains again loosened, he was left breathless and panting in their grasp.

“You of all people should know the depths to which I would fall to reach my goals,” Raistlin continued, keeping his distance as Dalamar struggled to regain his breath. The elf’s earlier display of magic was catching up to him. His body was limp and weak in the grip of the chains.

“I do know,” Dalamar breathed. He lifted his head with visible effort, bringing his eyes to Raistlin’s. “And that is why I cannot let you do this. For your sake as much as mine. You say that your soul is on the line? How is  _ this  _ any better for it? Am I truly worth so little? A coin to be bought and sold?”

“Yes,” Raistlin answered, his voice as numb as he felt. The Nothing delighted, no longer confused by the dark elf’s strange and fanciful proclamations. It reveled, it cavorted in the fact that he had looked Dalamar’s fate in the eye, and had not wavered.

Again he commanded the chains to tighten, and Dalamar shouted in agony.

Slack and limp, Dalamar shook his head, the expression he wore one of bitter disappointment. “You have changed,  _ shalafi.  _ You are as you once were,” his breathing was labored, “when you returned from Istar. Distant. Fearful. Lost.”

The Nothing growled, angered at being so easily identified, but Raistlin was quick to calm it, quick to soothe its grumblings with dulcet words that he was hardly aware of uttering.

“I returned from Istar with a great and terrible knowledge,” he answered, stepping nearer to his apprentice. Cold and without feeling, he took his jaw in one hand. “And I have already paid the price.”

“And what price did you pay?” was Dalamar’s bloody whisper. He did not blink. “What did you give? And what did you gain?”

“I gave what I ever have, Dalamar,” hourglass eyes flickered as his thumb traced the sides of his bleeding lip. “And gained all that I ever will.” 

_ “Shalafi—” _

“Now rest, apprentice,” Raistlin’s whisper was a knife. “Rest, and enjoy what little time you have left in this world.”

Saying no other word, Raistlin scooped a handful of sand from the ground, brought it to Dalamar’s face, and let it fall softly over him.

Dalamar’s eyes fluttered, fell heavily shut, and the dark elf soon fell into what Raistlin knew to be a deep and dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter update. Hopefully it's a good one nonetheless <3
> 
> (Also the chapter title is a line from the song Death's Door by Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats. A great Raistlin song altogether, never mind this fic.)


	10. This Wasted Land

Raistlin did not bother to pitch their tent. The trees of the oasis were large enough to shade him from the danger of the desert sun. He sat not far from the water’s shores, spellbook open upon his lap, nibbling absentmindedly at the rations from his pack. The camels had returned of their own accord, apparently realizing that they were no longer in danger from the winds and blasts and explosions of the mages’ earlier battle. They sat near Dalamar. Still chained by Raistlin’s magic and still fast asleep from his spell, the dark elf’s face, no longer drawn in worry or horror at his _shalafi’s_ betrayal, leaned slightly against the side of his mount. His face and hands were left partially in the sun, the angle of its descent causing the shade to shift. Raistlin had, briefly, considered rousing Dalamar to move him out of harm’s way before scowling and muttering harsh words that only he could hear, and returning to his studies.

He must focus. He must concentrate. They were less than a day’s ride from the Spring, and he needed all his faculties about him. The energy he had expended could be easily regained with rest, but it was not merely his magical stores that had been depleted. His magic would return, his powers would replenish even as he read from his spellbook. But his mind. His will. Raistlin was tempted to throw his spellbook into the sand and open himself up to the deluge of emotions that threatened to swiftly drown him. But what emotions would even come? What was there left for him to feel that he had not already felt? Conflict, confusion, doubt—such emotions were useless. They distracted him from his goal. They promised to exchange Dalamar’s doom for his own. He was too far. He had done too much. If he turned back now, if he roused his apprentice and released the spell with a muttered apology and a promise to return to the Tower—what would he say? Dalamar would not forgive him. And how could he? There was nothing Raistlin could do or say to assure himself, let alone his apprentice, that he was sorry for what he had done. What words could express how utterly desperate the Nothing had made him? What could he do to show his apprentice the agonies he had suffered, to convince him that Dalamar himself would have done no better if their roles had been reversed. Raistlin was not weak. And he was not wrong. Anyone would have done the same. Anyone would have made this choice. Anyone, anyone—

But no one came to mind.

His brother certainly would not have made this choice, nor Lady Crysania, nor any of the companions he had once associated with. Selfless, righteous, eternally giving, they would have gladly sacrificed their own lives and livelihoods before raising a hand against another. Adored, beloved—their choices were easy. Their options were clear. Raistlin had learned long ago that it did not matter how much good he did. The appearance of good was better rewarded. The facade of piety better received by the fools whom he had once hoped to claim dominion over. His former friends were just as faulted as he. His brief reunion with them that summer had proven just how far they stood from the enlightened versions of themselves they saw in their own minds. Raistlin was no more evil than they. He was only more practical.

Or so the Nothing told him.

Satisfied that he had once more rebuilt his will of iron, Raistlin returned his attentions to his spellbook and, when the sun had at last set behind the canopy of palms, and the birds and toads began their nighttime chorus, he lay himself down to sleep.

But sleep never came.

Worse even than his nightmares of footprints across the Abyss, Raistlin’s thoughts kept him awake. Perhaps he should have been alarmed that his own waking thoughts were more dire and deplorable than anything his imagination could unknowingly concoct. Perhaps he should have taken this fact as proof that his earlier reasoning had not been sound. There was an evil inside Raistlin, greater and more dire than that which lived in the hearts of his friends. And if he had once learned how to control it, he had long since forgotten such teachings. All he knew, all he _did_ remember, was the great and terrible Nothing. Awake and alone, Raistlin stared at the stars in the sky, seeing with perfect vision where his own constellation might once have shone, seeing with perfect clarity the visions taken from the mind of the Elder Tasslehoff. That blasted world, that acrid landscape that was even more barren and lifeless than the desert he had thus far traveled—that loneliness, that complete, utter loneliness. Raistlin looked up at the stars and saw that he had _not_ averted this fate as he had once thought. His end was immutable. His destiny the same no matter which path he took. He would be alone. He would _always_ be alone. 

All roads led to the Nothing.

And he was the one who had made them.

He gave up on sleep, admitted with the lightening of the sky that it would not come, and, weary and maligned, he rose to prepare for the journey ahead. His belongings were packed in minutes, his fast broken by habit more than by inclination, and when Raistlin finished attending to himself, he turned his attention to his still-slumbering apprentice.

“Dalamar,” he called. Seeing that the elf did not stir, he crossed over to him, and gave his shoulder an unfriendly shake. “Dalamar,” he said with more insistence.

Dalamar’s eyes fluttered open, consciousness slow to dawn. Magical chains still binding his hands behind his back, he yawned, and looked at Raistlin blearily. “Good Morning, _shalafi_.” He struggled to stretch against the flank of the seated camel, apparently half-forgetting his current predicament. “I trust that you slept well?”

Raistlin thrust the canteen into his face. “Drink. We leave at dawn.”

Dalamar looked at Raistlin dubiously before he blinked, seemed to take in his surroundings, and gave a cold smile. “Ah yes,” he said. “Of course.” He leaned forward and took several grateful gulps before pulling away. Water dripped from his scabbing lip, and the dark elf winced.

“I do not relish the thought of the sun on these wounds,” he said ruefully. He tried to examine himself, but there was little that he could see for his restraints. “Although the tingling of my skin tells me that I've already been left exposed.”

Indeed, several stripes of red and blotchy skin marred his otherwise bronzed face, a testament to Raistlin’s earlier lack of care. A memory came unbidden to Raistlin’s mind, a musing over whether his sunburnt apprentice would resemble a honey sweet persimmon or an overripe tomato…

In truth he resembled neither.

The burns were bright and angry; the cuts on his lip dark and swollen. Sweat had already begun to form on his brow, although daybreak was still a quarter hour or more away, and his long, dark hair was left loose to cling to his forehead in a tattered and tangled mess. He was unsightly, unseemly.

Entirely unfit for a sacrifice.

Before the Nothing could protest, Raistlin drew a spare cloth from within his robes, wet it, and brought it to Dalamar's forehead. The dark elf seemed to shiver as Raistlin drew it slowly across his brow and over his cheeks, wiping the dirt and grime and blood gently away. 

“Do not expect me to thank you,” Dalamar murmured through his administrations.

“I do not,” Raistlin said. He pocketed the cloth and began to work on Dalamar's hair. Fingers soft and movements deft, he began to comb through the snarls until it was once again smooth.

“Would you like to braid it for me?” Dalamar smiled, tone caustic. 

Raistlin hesitated, half a second away from mocking his request, but the certain knowledge that this would be his apprentice's last day upon this earth was just enough to soften his tongue. With hackles raised, the Nothing watched as Raistlin bid the elf to turn his head, and wove three thick strands into a simple plait.

“My work is not as fine as Iolanthe’s,” he said. He tied the braid with a cord pulled from within his robes. “But I believe it will suffice.”

“Suffice for what?” Dalamar asked quietly.

“Your presentment to the Spring, of course.” Raistlin could feel him tense, could see his shoulders go stiff at his words.

Dalamar twisted his torso to face him, magical chains rattling. “ _Shalafi_ why are you doing this?” His expression was deeply conflicted, the cool impassiveness of the morning all but vanished. “Why do you torment yourself so?” he hissed.

“Myself?” Raistlin raised an eyebrow. He stepped back from the dark elf, and took the Staff of Magius in hand. “If either one of us is currently being tormented, it is you, apprentice.”

“My suffering will soon end,” Dalamar said bitterly. “Yours, you will carry with you always.”

Raistlin frowned, his grip on the Staff tightened.

“But you do not have to,” the elf continued. He brought his gaze sharply to Raistlin’s, eyes intelligent and imploring. “You have conquered it before. You could once again become its master. I do not know by what name it is called but—”

“Enough,” Raistlin snapped, unnerved that Dalamar had once again come so close to identifying the Nothing. He stood coolly before him. “I would silence you by force if I were not conserving my strength for the Spring.”

“You could always use the Staff,” Dalamar scoffed. 

“The thought is tempting,” Raistlin sneered. Roughly he commanded the chains to tighten, and was satisfied to see Dalamar's face contort in pain and hear him mutter an oath in Silvanesti. “But I have yet other means to silence you. Now to your feet, apprentice. We have many miles more to travel.”

“As you say, _shalafi,_ ” Dalamar spat. He leaned against the docile camel, and came to stand on wavering feet.

Raistlin realized just then what was yet missing from his apprentice’s mien—his movement was not heralded by his usual scent of jasmine.

“Where is it?” Raistlin asked sharply.

Dalamar’s brows contracted, “Where is _what, shalafi?_ ”

“The scent you carry with you,” Raistlin said, face coloring that he had even mentioned such a thing. It seemed inexplicably important, somehow. “Some oil or perfume that you seem intent upon wearing at all times.”

“Do you wish to bathe me now too, _shalafi?”_ Dalamar laughed darkly, although Raistlin could detect a faint wonder in his eyes even as he laughed. Apparently seeing that Raisltin had no answer for his question, Dalamar continued. “It is in my pack. The small green vial at the front.”

Rigid and dignified, Raistlin knelt down to where he had gathered his apprentice’s belongings, and located the vial as described. With practiced precision, he opened the vial and shook two drops of the amber liquid onto the pad of his thumb. He then replaced the stopper, returned the vial, and returned to his apprentice.

Dalamar’s expression was pained as Raistlin pressed his thumb to his brow, rubbing the oil in slow, deliberate circles first there, then to one side his jaw, then to the sharp, pale line of his clavicle.

“Now you are ready, apprentice,” Raisltin said as the smell of jasmine filled his senses. He brought his eyes to his, and continued quietly, “And now we will depart.”

Dalamar’s eyes half-closed, lowing his gaze to Raistlin’s lips. His hands seemed to twitch. His breathing seemed to slow. Raistlin was certain, for one indeterminable moment, that he would press his lips to his, just as he was certain that, this time at least, Raistlin would not object—

But the elf pulled away.

With a snarl of frustration, Dalamar stepped back from Raistlin, and beheld him darkly. “As you say, _shalafi._ ”

Raistlin was forced to use his magic to lift and tether his apprentice to the back of his camel. Like so many pounds of flesh, Dalamar was slung upside down on his mount, hands and feet still bound by Raistlin’s magic. Head by the camel’s rump, stomach lying awkwardly across its saddle, it was hardly a dignified position, but it was not possible to transport him any other way. Effectively riderless, Raistlin tied his camel’s reigns to his own, and slowly the two beasts trudged across the desert sand, leaving the green of the oasis behind.

His trek was silent. His solitude complete. Raistlin did not speak to himself or to his apprentice, did not move or fuss about in the crux of his saddle. Indeed, he did not even draw the map from where it was hidden. He knew where to find the Spring. He knew how long it would take to get there. Like a creature who has made the same journey year in and year out for as long as it has been in existence, something seemed to draw Raistlin to its waters, some unheard voice seemed to whisper to him the exact number of steps he would need to take to reach his goal. It was all Raistlin could hear. It was all Raistlin could feel. All other thoughts ceased. Himself, his apprentice, even the Nothing—all entities faded, all agency seemed to melt and merge together under the heat of the scorching desert sun. Raistlin knew not who he was, knew not _where_ he was. Except that he was close. So close. He was Fistandantilus crossing Abanasinia. He was his future and nonexistent self crossing the shifting landscape of the Abyss. He was an old woman, drawn by her careworn granddaughter from dune to dune until she finally reached the one place in all the world that could heal her malady. The scent of jasmine filled his mind. But it did not call him to his senses. It only added to the strange frenzy that had begun to bubble and surge within him. Or perhaps that was the water of the Spring. Perhaps he was already there, and its miraculous waters had already cured him of his debilitating, damnable, accursed sight—

He opened his eyes.

No. Raistlin thought as he scanned the desert horizon. He had not been cured. His own hands, clinging to the reigns of his camel, began to rot and decay even as he looked at them. He shuddered, and glanced back at his apprentice. His hood had been drawn over his face to protect him from further damage by the sun, but his hands were visible behind his back. Whole, smooth, young. They remained as they were. No matter how long he stared.

And he did stare.

Unbeknownst to Dalamar, who could neither see his _shalafi_ nor hear him, Raistlin slowed his own camel’s tread, brought their mounts side-by-side, and stared at what little of his flesh was visible until the sun was high in the sky, and their shadows had grown dangerously small.

At last, Dalamar broke the silence.

“It must be near to noon, _shalafi,_ ” the dark elf said from the confines of his hood. “You ought to pitch the tent. You ought to seek shelter.”

“We will not stop, apprentice,” Raistlin intoned. He smiled in the depths of his hood. “We are nearly there.”

But although the beckoning in Raistlin’s mind was loud and unmistakably clear, the landscape appeared no different the next several hours they trod upon the sand. The horizon was flat, an expanse of gold and brown in all directions beneath the cloudless blue sky, their footsteps the only evidence of life amidst the wasted land. Futility was not a word in Raistlin’s mind, failure even less tangible than his doubts. And so he rode on. Waiting, breathless, heedless, for the temple that surrounded the Spring to break the northern horizon.

But it never did.

The sun began to descend. The wind began to rise. And at last they arrived at their destination.

But there was nothing there.

Sand and sky stretched long before him, unbroken by rock or tree or bush or stone. Raistlin might have brought them in a circle, so similar did the landscape look to that which they had traversed since the break of day. And now Raistlin _did_ draw the map, unfurling it with too-calm hands as he brought his camel to a halt. This was it. There was no mistaking it. This was where the Spring of the Unspoiled ought to be.

And yet he saw nothing.

Lips pursed in confusion, Raistlin grabbed the Staff, and dismounted.

“ _Shalafi?”_ came Dalamar's muffled voice from his camel.

Raistlin ignored him. He had already begun to tread a wide circle, map in hand.

“It must be here,” Raistlin muttered beneath his breath. “It must be.”

_“Shalafi.”_

Raistlin knew of no spell or enchantment used to conceal the Spring. Neither Tondo's accounts nor Iolanthe's tale had indicated that it was hidden by any means except by the temple that had been built to house it.

But where was the temple?

He replaced the map in his robes, held out his hand, and cast a spell to detect magic. It was a simple cantrip, one that he had cast countless times in his life, but for some reason that Raistlin could not fathom, this time, it detected nothing.

The spell fizzled and died.

“Name of the gods _,”_ Raistlin cursed. His linen robes whipped about him in the wind, clouds suddenly overtaking the heavens above. Panic began to rise. Had he done something wrong? Had he overlooked some important detail? He stared at the horizon, now dark and cast in shadow, and snarled. “Where is it? _Where is it?”_

_“Shalafi!”_

“Silence, apprentice!” Raistlin turned to him in anger, only to have his mouth go slack with shock, and his eyes go wide with fear.

A wall of sand was thundering toward them.

Raistlin had heard of sandstorms, had read of them in his preparations for this sordid journey into the desert, but he had not quite understood the scale of such storms until now. Columns as large as the Tower of High Sorcery itself seemed to rise from the ground, massive, swirling pillars charging side-by-side across the barren landscape, their heads lost in shadow as millions upon millions of particles of sand blotted out the westering sun, turning the day into a crimson, hellish night. Wind roared like a feral beast, earth shook like it would soon burst and rupture and, to Raistlin’s great dismay, there was nowhere for the archmagus to hide.

Raistlin cast a spell of protection, his lips speaking the words just in time to shut his mouth against the sudden influx of sand. A sphere erupted from his hand, a shield of dark light forming around them like a protective cocoon, but it was too late. Sand was everywhere. Wind was everywhere. All was red, brown, gold. It filled his eyes, his nose, his mouth.

He began to choke.

Raistlin fell to his knees—coughing, ragged and guttural. It was as if he had swallowed the blades of a saw, and they were trying to slice his throat from within.

 _“Shalafi!”_ Dalamar’s voice called, distant yet near. He heard the dark elf’s coughs matching his own. “Release me from my chains! Release me or I shall die!”

Raistlin did nothing. Doubled over on the sand, he continued to cough, lungs ablaze.

“Release me!” Dalamar shouted, angrier now. “Or my death will mean your own!”

The wind took his voice, what little breath he had left quickly devoured by its swirling wiles. His coughing grew worse.

“Raistlin!” Dalamar cried.

Cursing himself, cursing the Spring, and cursing the man who had ruined his sight so many years before, Raistlin shielded his face from the sand, and choked the words to the spell.

Dalamar's release could be felt as much as heard, the sensation of chains breaking tethered to Raistlin’s soul by the all-encompassing thrall of the magic. He braced himself, ready for his apprentice to resume his magical assault from the day before or else to flee into the surrounding desert, but Dalamar neither attacked nor fled. A few moments suspended in time, and Raistlin was stunned to hear a defensive spell on Dalamar's lips, and feel his arms envelope his form.

"Hold on," Dalamar said.

Dazed and unable to refuse, Raistlin let his head fall against his chest, and, huddled tightly together, the two mages waited for the storm to pass.

How long this trial lasted, Raistlin had not the slightest clue. Whether seconds or eons, whether minutes or millennia, it made no difference. All was sand and wind and scorching flame. All was death and destruction and decay.

All. Except Dalamar.

The Nothing fled to its corner at his touch, shivering and shaking as if it too were waiting for the great storm to end. Raistlin’s inner eye watched with astonishment as it cowered, confused and alone and afraid of the thing that had so dared to rob it of its prey. Once so huge and so monstrous, the Nothing seemed to shrink before him. Its size was still formidable, its eyes were still dark and empty and yawning, but something in the sting of its teeth was dulled, something in the tone of its growls was mollified.

When at last the wind ceased to blow, when at last the particles of sand began to settle, Dalamar released him from his grasp.

Saying no word, the dark elf unmade the sphere of protection that had only somewhat fulfilled its purpose in shielding them from the storm, and stepped back to observe the damage. Raistlin, still wheezing and gasping for breath, followed his gaze weakly.

Where before had been only sand and sky now stood something quite new. A hollow lay before them, a deep basin revealed by the movement of the shifting sands, and within that basin lay nestled a large, claw-shaped structure of sun-bleached rock and, if legends spoke true, sun-bleached bone. White and skeletal, its five spiraling towers reached up to the sun, appearing to hold it in its grasp just as the crystal atop his Staff was held.

The Spring of the Unspoiled.

Half-slumped upon the ground, Raistlin pushed himself upright, and turned to Dalamar.

“You do not run?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Dalamar looked first to him, then to the temple below. “No,” he answered. His hair had fallen loose of the braid Raistlin had made, half-obscuring his sunburnt face. He looked haggard, disheveled, but the bitter smile he gave made the Nothing hiss in disdain. “No, _shalafi,_ ” he repeated. “I am going with you.”

“To your death?” Raistlin sneered.

Dalamar turned back to him, eyebrow raised. “We shall see.”

Raistlin scoffed, “Fool. I have not changed my mind about your fate.”

“I know,” Dalamar said quietly. “Then let me be a fool.” He looked up from beneath the strands of his dark hair. “You need not drag me in like a calf to slaughter. I will walk freely by your side, as I ever have.”

Raistlin considered him coldly, the Nothing growing more and more impatient by the moment.

“Very well,” Raistlin said. “Then let us waste no more time.” He gripped his Staff, and made for the edge of the newly-formed ridge. He looked back at Dalamar. “Your fate awaits you.”

Dalamar’s lips quirked in grim understanding as, calmly, coldly, he stepped forward to join his master.

“As does yours, _shalafi,_ ” he whispered as they began their descent into the valley. Raistlin heard his words like a breath on the wind. “As does yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting toward the end of the fic now. Only a few chapters left :[ And it all culminates in *Deep Hurting*
> 
> Chapter title comes from the song Wasteland by Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats. Yes, that's the second one in a row they've inspired. They were particularly relevant to the creation of this fic, apparently.
> 
> See y'all again soon :]


	11. Your Name, Traveler

**Chapter Eleven: Your Name, Traveler**

They shuffled down the winding slopes of the ridge, reaching the floor of the valley in minutes. The temple seemed to grow in height as they descended, its five spires glinting and orange as the sun set slowly behind it. The sandstorm had left its mark on the sky—a pink, reddish tinge mixed with the twilit colors of sunset. Raistlin shivered. Its glare was eerie, and was just luminous enough to cast its light on the humanoid bones that littered the sandy basin leading to the temple’s doors.

“Look,  _ shalafi _ ,” Dalamar pointed quietly to an arrangement of bones more dignified than the rest. It was a small skeleton. A few dried petals still clung to its skull, a quiver of arrows and a bow had sunk into its rib-cage, and next to it were the remains of someone larger—huddled, barren, unadorned.

“Iolanthe’s sister,” Raistlin nodded. “And grandmother.”

Dalamar made a reverent sign and muttered a few swift words in Silvanesti.

Raistlin arched an eyebrow, “A prayer?”

“Of sorts,” Dalamar replied. He turned his gaze to the temple. “You said that the gods of neutrality are responsible for this place?”

“Sirrion, yes,” Raistlin answered, also eyeing the towering temple. It was like no other that he had seen before. The claw-shaped spires leaned and jutted precariously into the air, their weight supported by means unknown to the archmagus. The stones of its making were angular, uneven, as if someone had blasted a boulder into tiny fragments and had then rearranged its pieces as they had seen fit. With neither beam nor mortar, who else could have constructed such a sordid shape, if not the gods?

Raistlin turned to Dalamar sharply. “And it is he who has created the equation that will end you. Recall what Iolanthe said.”

“Two will go in, one will come out,” Dalamar said with a humorless smile. “Yes,  _ shalafi,  _ I remember. The equal exchange. The bargain in which you will trade my life for the restoration of your sight.”

“Precisely,” Raistlin said, eyes narrowed. The light was fading fast. Dalamar's face was partially lost in shadow: calm, impassive. He did not have the look of an apprentice about to lose his life at the hands of his master.

And Dalamar must have known this, for he gave his  _ shalafi  _ a brief smile, and said, “So you say. I, for one, am not entirely convinced that this place is to be my grave.”

“You may depend upon it, Dalamar,” Raistlin assured him with a hiss. “But as you have already expressed your wish to play the fool—”

“I have.”

“Then there will be no turning back,” Raistlin continued. His hand twitched as he gripped his Staff, and he added, “For either of us.”

Dalamar inclined his head in the direction of the temple. “No,  _ shalafi,  _ I don’t believe there will be.”

Raistlin followed his gaze and saw that the doors to the temple, large and decorated in intricate filigree, now stood quite open, revealing a dark and derelict passage beyond.

Cold seemed to seep from the open passage. Raistlin could once more feel that unknown beckoning, familiar as it was strange, comforting as it was distressing, urging the archmagus to enter. The Nothing lifted its head. This was pleasing. This was something from which it could feed. Fear. Emptiness. Darkness. This was where the Nothing belonged, where Raistlin belonged. This was where he would finally rid himself of Raelanna’s curse, where he would finally be free of the unjust will of Par-Salian, and the constant reminder of death and decay.

This was where he would lose his closest friend.

Raistlin shook the thought away with a snarl. What friend? Raistlin had no friends. Dalamar was his apprentice, nothing more. He had already made up his mind. He had already decided. It did not matter how he might have felt about Raistlin, friend or something more, or how Raistlin might have felt about him. This was the only path forward, and, by the gods, Raistlin was going to take it.

Swift and silent, Raistlin grabbed the elf’s arm, and pulled him roughly inside.

“Come, Dalamar,” he said. “This ends now.”

  
  


The darkness of the temple was absolute. Raistlin should light his Staff, but, for some reason that he could not explain, he did not carry it within his grasp. Alone, Raistlin found himself traversing a dark, musty corridor. Hands held out to both sides, he felt the walls as he walked, blind for the lack of light. He went slowly down its length, wary of the stones and cracks and crevices beneath his feet. At times he tripped and fell. At times he lost his way. The walls sometimes widened farther than his reach, and he was forced to stumble through the darkness without the slightest inclination of where he was, or, truth be told, what he was doing. His mind seemed to be in a haze, his memory a tangled mess of recollection.

Where was he? And why was he here?

He stumbled a few steps more, and tripped over something large and solid.

He fell to the ground with an oath, catching himself but sliding across the moist and mossy floor. Water trickled beneath him. Strange. Hadn’t he been in the desert? Hadn’t he been in Khur?

He stood with effort, the slime that seemed to cover the walls making his ascent difficult, and turned to examine what had blocked his path. He could see little, even as close as he was, but the obstacle had the shape of a person, taller than he, although not much stouter. The figure was huddled on the ground, and wore robes of dark velvet that melted perfectly with long strands of fine black hair...

“Dalamar,” Raistlin exclaimed to the darkness. 

He knelt next to him, and felt for a pulse. It was there, but it was weak.

“What has happened?” Raistlin snapped. He looked around, but the corridor was too dark to determine anything about his apprentice’s supposed assailant. Frown deepening, Raistlin looked back to the dark elf to examine his face. His hand brushed his hair. Ah. The scent of jasmine. Why was the smell so familiar? And why did it fill Raistlin with such sudden dread?

And then he remembered.

“The Spring,” he said, words swallowed by the mossy darkness. “I entered the Temple, Dalamar at my side.” He stroked more of the dark hair out of his face, serene, smooth, and showing no signs of distress or attack. “How did he get here?”

And where was his Staff?

“Shirak,” Raistlin spoke.

Nothing. The Staff’s light did not appear anywhere within his sight.

“Shirak,” he tried again, this time attempting to summon light to his hand by his own magic, but to no success. His magic was gone, but Raistlin was not perturbed. He had entered sacred grounds. If the gods had seen it fit to remove him of his equipment, there was little he could do to protest. His magic, and the Staff, would return to him once he was gone from this foul place, he was certain. And the sooner he fulfilled his purpose here, the better.

Seeing that Dalamar would not rouse and knowing that he had not the strength to carry him, Raistlin began to prop him up against the wall. The elf groaned as he was moved, eyelids fluttering. It was not until Raistlin had coaxed him into a seated position upon the trickling floor that Dalamar spoke.

_ “Shalafi,”  _ he said weakly. His eyes had opened a fraction, two glinting lights in the dark of the corridor. “Where are we? What happened?”

“We are in the temple of the Spring,” Raistlin answered, then continued impatiently. “Tell me, Dalamar, what can you see of this place? This darkness is of the gods’ doing. I cannot use my magic to lift it.”

Dalamar blinked, then lifted his head slowly to look first one way, then the other. “There is not much to see,” he said. “The corridor is long, and it goes far in both directions. But I believe…”

“Yes?” Raistlin prompted.

Dalamar turned his face to the right, “I hear water, coming from that direction.”

“Then it is that way to the Spring,” Raistlin said. He stood to his full height. “Can you walk, apprentice?”

“Yes,  _ shalafi,”  _ he answered. “With help.”

Raistlin nodded, and held out his hand. Dalamar reached forward to grab his wrist, and together they brought the elf to his feet. He slumped forward into Raistlin with a groan of pain, and Raistlin caught him in his arms, his own breath hitching.

“I apologize,  _ shalafi, _ ” Dalamar said roughly. He shifted against him until his weight was shared equally between the two mages, Raistlin’s arm supporting him. “I know not what creature attacked me, but it has left me weak. I will need your assistance if we are to reach the Spring.”

“Of course,” Raistln said, all-to-conscious of the feel of his body next to his. A chill ran down his spine. The dark elf felt unexpectedly cold. They had been close before, whether side-by-side in the Tower’s laboratory or else in the grips of one of Raistlin’s fits of coughing, and Raistlin had always thought Dalamar’s form to be warm, inviting. “Are you ready, apprentice?”

“Yes,  _ shalafi, _ ” he answered, and together they began to amble down the slick stones of the darkened hallway. Dalamar was his eyes, his elven vision far keener in the dark than Raistlin’s, and Raistlin, strange as it was for the frail mage, was Dalamar's strength.

“Do you see an end, Dalamar?” Raistlin asked after several minutes of walking. His arms and legs were already tired.

“Not yet,  _ shalafi,” _ Dalamar said.

Raistlin frowned, but said nothing. They continued their trek. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. And still the hall grew no lighter, and still Raistlin could not hear the rush of water that his apprentice claimed to hear. There was little more than a trickle in his ear, a sound as of water dripping from the walls around them.

“Do you still hear the water, apprentice?” he asked, legs on fire from supporting his weight. “Are we going the right way?”

“Yes,  _ shalafi,”  _ was Dalamar’s response.

“Are you certain?” Raistlin grunted.

“Yes,  _ shalafi. _ ”

“Can you say nothing else?” Raistlin snapped.

“Yes,  _ shalafi. _ ”

Angered, Rasitlin looked to his apprentice, and was startled to see his eyes staring up at him with an expression so vacant and vacuous that Raistlin visibly recoiled.

“Dalamar—” he nearly dropped the elf from his grasp. “What is this? You are not yourself.”

Dalamar’s face broke into a sickening smile. “What do you mean,  _ shalafi?  _ This is how you like me, is it not? Servile,” he smile grew, “obedient,” and grew, “loyal?”

Now Raistlin did drop the elf. With a thud, Dalamar landed on the floor.

“You are not my apprentice,” Raistlin hissed. He instinctively extended his hands and readied a spell at the impostor, but remembered too late that his magic had been taken from him. “Reveal yourself, spirit,” he commanded.

The figure of Dalamar began to laugh. High-pitched and full of ill-humor, the laugh was not his own. Its cackle resonated through the hall as if they stood in an open chamber, and its face, as Raistlin stared at it with cold determination, began to twist and distort. Shadow drew to it, darkness seemed to grow from within. The creature's laughter ceased, and before Raistlin stood a visage so shocking that he might have cried out if his voice had not been swallowed by his own terror.

The Nothing stood before him.

As if free from the prison of his mind, the personification of all Raistlin’s doubts and fears had taken shape from the darkness. A creature of shadow, half-beast, half-man, it towered head and shoulders over Raistlin. But it was not its physique that terrified him. It was its eyes. Empty. Soulless. While in his mind they had been dark, in life they were blinding white. They stared at Raistlin without emotion, completely at odds with the smile of amusement on the creature's face.

“You do not like my disguise?” the Nothing asked. Its voice was a croak, a small, almost mewling noise that would be pathetic if it were not attached to such a fearsome maw. 

“I do not appreciate it, no,” Raistlin barely had the wherewithal to utter.

“Was it not to your liking?” it asked. “Was it not accurate?”

Raistlin shook his head, quickly recovering, “Not in the slightest. My apprentice is neither as meek nor as mindless as you have portrayed.”

The Nothing cackled, “Indeed, Raistlin Majere, I shall remember that. And yet I wonder at you coming to his aid. Was this not the self-same apprentice you wished to give to the gods in sacrifice?”

“It was,” Raistlin answered. “And he is my offering still, wherever he may be.” He looked around the hall, now lit by the Nothing’s blinding white stare. It tapered off in long stretches, its ends in both directions entirely out of sight.

“Oh you won’t find anything that way,” the Nothing said.

“Which way?”

The Nothing shrugged. “Either.”

Raistlin frowned. “There must be some way out of this place. Where is the Spring? From whence does its water flow?”

“Oh, here, and there, and there, and here,” the Nothing answered. It again stepped closer. “How quickly you find your way to its shores is entirely up to you.”

“Ah,” Raistlin said. Of course. The guardian of the Spring was said to be a trickster. Tondo had written as much in their works, and local legends had confirmed this to be true. “You have some task for me, some riddle. Name it, and I may be on my way.”

The Nothing regarded Raistlin a moment, white eyes empty and perfectly still. The creature did not blink, he suddenly noticed. His stomach churned.

“A riddle, yes,” the Nothing replied, equal parts menacing and delighted. “So it has been since my masters first sent me into darkness, so shall it be for all time and eternity. Sirrion’s waters are precious, his bounty great to those who prove themselves worthy of his impartial assistance.” The Nothing stepped around Raistlin now, encircling him like a wild beast stalks its prey. “Those who enter this place alone are devoured by the desert’s raging sands, but those who come prepared,” its smile grew large and lopsided, “must answer to my wills. I have been tasked,” his cold breath slid down Raistlin’s neck, “to weed out the worthy from the unworthy.”

“You will find that I am worthy, O Guardian,” Raistlin intoned.

“Oh, I do very much hope so, Raistlin Majere,” the Nothing said. It stopped its pacing, and came to stand directly before him. “You are the first to enter these doors in some years, and I confess that I have grown weary in the long days of my solitude. I do so wish for you to succeed, I truly do,” neither its eyes nor its mouth gave any indication that this was the case, “and thus I extend to you a riddle that is, may the gods forgive me, quite simple.”

“Yes. Get on with it,” Raistlin hissed.

The Nothing gave a hideous smile. “I have but one question to ask of you.” He paused. “What is my name?”

Raistlin opened his mouth to reply ‘the Nothing,’ but quickly realized that that was not correct. As much as it might appear that his imagined nemesis stood before him, Raistlin now understood that this was simply another of the spirit’s guises. As it had taken the form of Dalamar, so too had it taken the form of the Nothing. How it had extracted this image from Raistlin’s mind, he did not wish to know, but it did now give him pause. He did not truly stand in an endless corridor. He had not truly been wandering a lightless labyrinth. This was all the spirit’s doing, a way for it, as it had said, to test the merit of those who would make use of the Spring’s waters. But then where was Dalamar? Where had he gone?

“Your thoughts do you credit, archmagus,” the Nothing said sweetly. “Rest assured, the sacrifice is ready and waiting for you at your destination. No harm will come to him,” his smile twisted, “yet.”

Raistlin frowned, “It makes little difference.” He returned his thoughts to the task at hand. Neither Raelanna nor Tondo had recorded the name of the spirit that guarded the Spring, at least, not that Raistlin had read, but perhaps he had come across it elsewhere. Lost to his recollections, Raistlin coolly and calmly searched the various compartments of his mind, sifting through volume after volume of the many and myriad magical texts he had consumed in his lifetime. He had read histories. He had read chronologies and lexicons and demonologies. But nothing—nothing—came to mind.

“Your efforts are valiant,” the Nothing praised. The distant drip-drop of water accompanied its goblin-voice. “But you will not find the answer you seek in the halls of memory.”

“And where then might I find it?” Raistlin snapped at the creature, frustration making his voice sharp.

“Why, within your own imagination, of course,” the Nothing stated. Its hollow white eyes bore into Raistlin’s. “After all, that is where I was born, was I not?”

His imagination? Did the demon refer to its guise after all? The spirit itself had not sprung forth from Raistlin’s mind, but the Nothing, the costume that spirit now wore, had indeed been born there...

Or perhaps it was not a costume.

Raistlin recoiled. “You don’t mean—” Horror settled into his heart, and he shook his head, “No. You are not real.”

“And yet I stand before you,” the Nothing said, giving a shambling curtsy. It pulled a face, “Although, as I recall, I did not, perhaps, begin within the halls of  _ your _ imagination. I only grew there. No, the seed of my existence was born from the mind of a kender, and one out of his own time, at that.”

Raistlin again shook his head. “No,” he said more firmly this time. “The Nothing is not real. It is a figment of my mind. It is the embodiment of a terrible future, a horrible fate which I have striven to avoid.”

“Oh, the Nothing is  _ very  _ real,” the creature said, teeth dripping with ichor. “But that moniker can hardly be called a name. No, it has a true name, and it is as familiar to you as the air that you breathe, perhaps even more so.”

“To the  _ abyss _ with you and your riddles,” Raistlin snapped, fear suddenly gripping his heart. An idea had come to mind, a name sat hovering on his tongue, but it was too terrible a thought to give breath and voice. “I no longer wish to play your game.”

“Then you will leave this place as lifeless a corpse as your apprentice,” it answered simply. “But I do not believe that you are ready to forfeit, just yet,” it beheld him with its blinding gaze. “In fact, I think that you have only just begun to understand.”

“No,” Raistlin croaked, shaking his head almost frantically. “No, I do  _ not  _ understand.”

“Ah, but I can hear your thoughts as if they were my own,” the creature replied. It smiled, “Come now, it is not so bad, facing yourself, facing your fears. We all have darkness within, do we not? We all must look that darkness in its eyes at some point. You are lucky to look so easily upon yours.”

Raistlin did not reply. His tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth; his heart beat wildly in his chest. He was not a man to easily lose his nerve, yet this thing, this  _ one thing _ frightened Raistlin to his very core. He knew who the Nothing was. He knew its true name. He had known it all along, in fact. But he had not cared to face it. Born from the mind of the kender, shown to Raistlin by means of a magical spell—a future of solitude, a future of death. For all. All, but he. It was he who would remain. It was he who would surpass all others and live on, forever and ever without end, until he would inevitably turn upon himself and, like the snake that devours its tail, he would wink himself out of his tortured existence.

Yes, Raistlin knew the name of the Nothing.

And it was at last time that he face it.

“Your name,” he said, looking the creature square in its horrible, empty eyes. “Is Raistlin Majere.”

The creature smiled, took a step forward, and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Precisely,” it said.

And then it was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep breath, y'all. We're almost there!


	12. Master and Apprentice

Raistlin stood in the corridor for some time. The guardian’s departure was marked by the appearance of torches on the wall, happily flickering with firelight, and by the return of the Staff of Magius to his hand. But so stunned was he from his encounter with the spirit that Raistlin tested neither the Staff nor his own magic to see how they would function. He simply stood, and stared at the terminus of the hall, which was heralded by a faint green light far ahead.

All roads led to the Nothing.

The knowledge that Raistlin was his own worst enemy was, somehow, unsurprising. He had so long battled his inner demons. How could he have overlooked the largest of them all? The Nothing. It was real, that much the guardian had said. It was not some mere figment of his imagination. It was as tangible a thing as Raistlin himself. And yet it was he. He was it. There was no separation. It dwelt inside him, as much a part of himself as his legs and hands and arms. He smirked softly in the light of the torches. Perhaps it was more appropriate to liken the thing to his heart, or to his brain. For there it seemed to dwell. How had he failed to realize, how had he forgotten—Raistlin was his own master. Anything that dwelt within him was his own responsibility to control. He had treated the Nothing like a wild beast, like a creature unable to be bested or contained. But it was not so. The reigns had been within his grasp the whole time, he only had not wished to grab them.

But grab them he must, and quickly.

Raistlin stared at the light ahead. Green, full of life. It smelled of fresh air, a warm breeze wafting down the hall like the first green wind of spring. It beckoned to him. It called his name. Dalamar would be there waiting, the spirit had said, ready to make the sacrifice. Raistlin shook his head. No, he thought. This was madness.  _ He  _ did not wish to destroy his apprentice. The Nothing did. But wasn’t  _ he  _ the Nothing? It was within him. It was his to control, his to command. And he  _ must  _ command it. Look what it had made him do—what he had  _ allowed  _ it to do. Raistlin thought, with a great and terrible fury, of all that had transpired in the last few weeks, seeing himself for what he truly had been. A puppet. A plaything. An agent of the Nothing that it had used to further its own ends. Like the lich he had once banished from his soul, the Nothing had used Raistlin to his utmost. But no more. Raistlin would once more gain control of this inner adversary. He would once more gain control of himself.

He took the Staff, and headed down the hall.

His footfalls muffled by the moss on the walls and the shallow splash of water at his feet, Raistlin exited the endless corridor and found himself standing at the edge of a garden. Lush with green and life, the garden occupied the majority of the courtyard. Trees lined the path on which Raistlin now walked, bushes of flowers and tall grasses interspersed throughout, their greenery tinged with the golden light of dawn. Raistlin frowned. How long had he been trapped in that maze? But there was no mistaking it. Day was breaking behind the five finger-like towers of the temple, whose shadows crossed the verdant garden like a hand about to close its grasp.

And at the garden’s center, sitting on the lip of a marble fountain, was Dalamar.

Unheedful of his  _ shalafi’s  _ approach, Dalamar looked haggard, perturbed. He sat hunched over, elbows resting on the tops of his thighs, head slightly bowed as if a weight had been pressed upon him. Dark hair cascaded over rigid shoulders, their tension belying the fear that Raistlin was certain was within the elf’s heart. Guilt, that oftentimes useless emotion, tugged at Raistlin insistently. Dalamar’s turmoil was not the Nothing’s doing, it was Raitlin’s. Why then did he feel so inept to admit it? And here of all places.

Here, by the Spring of the Unspoiled.

The Spring was, in truth, a fountain. He would have called it man-made, had he not known of its godly origins. A jet of water sprayed from its top in a graceful arch, white marble formed a wide circle at its base. Its center was marked by a column in the ancient style, upon which sat the marble likeness of a scale. On one side of the scale floated an orb of what appeared to be water, and on the other had been placed an orb of flame. The scale was perfectly in balance, neither the water nor the flame tipping its beam in either direction.

_ “Shalafi, _ ” Dalamar had at last noticed him at the garden’s entrance. He corrected his posture, sitting rigid and straight-backed as his master approached. “You have been gone so long. I had begun to worry.”

Raistlin advanced slowly, his Staff thudding dully against the dirt. “Fear not, apprentice,” he said wearily, “I am well.” He reached the Spring, observing the structure with a cool, even expression. The orbs set upon the likeness of the scale were indeed made of water and fire, each element contained in their respective spheres as air is contained in a bubble.

“Curious,” he remarked, leaning over the Spring to better observe them.

“Indeed,  _ shalafi, _ ” Dalamar replied, coming to his feet. He peered at Raistlin sidelong before turning his gaze to the Spring. “I have studied them at length, although I do not know their portent. The flame is for Sirrion, but the water—”

“A balancing element,” Raistlin answered. At last he understood. “The other end of the equation. The opposing force to Sirrion’s ever-burning flame.”

“The flame of his temple?” Dalamar asked.

“Yes,” Raistlin said, eyes now roving over the Spring’s dawn-tinged waters. “A god with a passion for alchemy; he writes his own equation with the very elements of Krynn. The bringer of flame, the father of the worldforge, yet he, as all the gods of neutrality, feels the need to balance the scale. And so he creates the Spring, the equal counterpart to the fires of creation.”

Dalamar looked to his  _ shalafi,  _ eyes now slightly wide with wonder, “So if Reorx grew tired of his forge, he could continue to craft the world from the Spring’s waters instead?”

“Perhaps,” Raistlin answered, smiling softly.

“Then they are powerful indeed,” Dalamar said, his voice now tinged with sadness. He drew away from Raistlin. “ _ Shalafi…” _

Raistlin did not answer. His gaze fell back to the water, to his own image reflected there. He looked worse than his apprentice: haunted, weary, gaunt. His golden skin glinted in the early morning light, his golden eyes their match.

But his image was soon to change.

The curse of his hourglass eyes transformed him. Raistlin watched as his own face began to rot, his own mouth began to warp and curl to reveal the entirety of his teeth and jaw. His hair thinned and fell, his own brow began to crawl with maggots. All life seemed to drain from him, all vigor replaced with crippling lethargy and creaking decay. It had been years since he had last looked upon his own visage for such a length of time. But his encounter with the spirit had compelled him. He must indulge in the twisted, bile-inducing exercise, else he might forget himself, forget who he truly was, and what he might become...

“What did I tell you?” a voice said from somewhere behind Raistlin’s ear. Dread washed over him, followed swiftly by cold anger. Gripping the Staff tightly, Raistlin turned from the water, and came face-to-face with the guardian of the Spring. Still in the guise of the Nothing, the spirit towered over Raistlin and Dalamar, who stood next to him with eyes and mouth wide with fear. The spirit smiled devilishly, “It is not so bad, facing your fears.”

Raistlin gave a humorless smile, “And I am lucky to look upon mine so easily?”

“Exceedingly,” the spirit agreed, teeth bared. “Now,” its said, winking out of sight only to reappear behind them, floating like a specter next to the marble fountain’s spout. “I am a patient demon, but even  _ I _ grow bored of your antics. It is time to make the exchange as promised. One splash of Sirrion’s miraculous waters,” he gestured to the pool beneath him, “for one unlucky apprentice.”

Dalamar tensed next to him, gritting his teeth as if he had sustained a physical blow, but he did not look at Raistlin. Whether afraid of his  _ shalafi _ or of the emotion he would see on his face, Raistlin did not know, but his distress would be short lived. Calm and commanding, Raistlin turned to the guardian.

“I think not,” he said.

If the situation had not been so dire, Raistlin might have laughed for how quickly the spirit’s face fell. From sinister confidence to boorish confusion, the spirit stared stupidly at the archmagus for half a moment before its empty eyes went red with rage.

“You think not?” it demanded. “And why, by the gods, would that be?”

“I no longer find the terms agreeable,” Raistlin said simply. “The Spring is powerful, I grant you, but I seek neither its powers of creation nor its ability to give life to the dead. I wish only to restore my sight.”

“ _ Only  _ to restore your sight?” the spirit repeated, mocking. “ _ Only  _ to break an unbreakable curse that not even its maker could unmake? I would say one measly, little life is perfectly suited for payment of the otherwise impossible.”

"With all respect to the god who created this Spring," Raistlin said, “I disagree. The life of my apprentice is not  _ measly  _ or little. He is an irreplaceable asset to me and my research. He is a gifted pupil, a trusted friend,” he turned to Dalamar, expression grave, “and I have no desire to exchange him for my sight.”

Dalamar’s look was full of relief, full of  _ pride _ , and now Raistlin understood why he had followed him so close to the brink of destruction. Dalamar had expected the best of him. And not in that blind and self-serving way that Caramon or Crysania might have. Even when Raistlin had threatened his life, even when Raistlin had vowed in no uncertain terms that he  _ would  _ see this endeavor through to its mortal end, Dalamar had not faltered. He had fought, for himself and for his  _ shalafi,  _ with the goal of helping him see what Raistlin had, until this very night, somehow lost sight of.

The Nothing was strong. But Raistlin was stronger.

“Come, Dalamar,” Raistlin said, half-turning from the guardian and the Spring. “We are leaving.”

“You will forfeit your lives,” the spirit warned. “The gods have found you worthy.  _ Sirrion  _ finds you worthy. You have chosen your sacrifice, now offer him!”

“I will not,” Raistlin said.

“And how about you,” the spirit turned its abominable head to Dalamar, its face twisted with cunning. “There must be something you desire, something you would give your master’s life to obtain? Wait, say nothing,” the spirit made a show of closing its eyes in deep concentration, “I see it now. You are a dark elf, banished from his home and sworn never to return. I could grant you clemency. I could make it so that your countrymen would awake tomorrow and remember nothing of your crimes. You could return home. You could live there all the long years of your life—”

“No, thank you,” Dalamar said coolly. He regarded the spirit with an open disgust that made Raistlin’s lip curl in delight. “My calling to the magic of darkness will keep me ever from the place where I was born. Nothing can change that, not even your Spring.”

The demon gave a howl of rage. “Fools! Imbeciles! You have the power of gods before you and you do not wish to claim it?”

Raistlin gave the guardian a ghost of a smile, “It would not be the first time I have done so. Nor, perhaps, will it be the last.”

“Oh it  _ will  _ be the last _ , _ ” the spirit growled and outstretched its rancid hand, “I guarantee it.”

The guardian’s magic was fast, but Raistlin and Dalamar’s was faster. Two minds as one, both mages skillfully shielded themselves from its attack and countered with spells of their own. Dalamar trapped the creature so that it could not blink from their plane of existence; Raistlin brought the thing to its knees with a great  _ burst  _ of energy that rocked the very foundations of the temple. There was a battle of will, a struggle by the archmagus to gain hold of its demonic mind which Raistlin soon won out, and the spirit was his to command.

“You insolent,” the demon sputtered as Raistlin held it in thrall between him and the Spring, “you  _ blasphemous  _ fool! You dare to challenge the will of my god! You should have taken the offer,” it was shrieking. “You should have taken it!”

Raistlin looked at the creature coldly, “And what is to stop me from taking it now?”

“Fool! Even if I were gone, you would still need to make an offering to the gods,” it cried, struggling in his magical grasp. He was trying to regain control. He was trying to break Raistlin’s hold.

“Then I will make it an offering,” he said.

He flung the beast into the Spring.

Surprise marred its face for half a moment before its visage was all but burned away by Raistlin’s magical fire. Its screams were brief, its throes horrible to behold. The fire consumed it wholly and without discrimination, eating away at the stuff of its making as if the spirit had been coated in some slippery oil. Wild and outraged, the spirit cried madly for its god to save it, but neither Raistlin nor the spirit heard any answer.

The guardian was gone.

Ash began to fall from where its immense form had been. Like some perverse snow, it floated through the air to rest on the water’s rippling surface, where it swirled and coalesced and faded into abject silence.

Raistlin lowered himself to the lip of the Spring, coughing into the sleeve of his robe. His lungs ached; his body was weak from his spellcasting. Legs that shook with effort collapsed under him.

“Raistlin?” Dalamar said from behind, voice uncertain. 

The archmagus did not turn. “In a moment, Dalamar,” he said quietly. He contemplated the Spring for a moment, then, with hands that were strangely hesitant, Raistlin leaned down, and lathered the water of the Spring of the Unspoiled onto his face.

He felt nothing. He might as well have washed his face in a forest stream or a bedside basin. But, when Raistlin opened his eyes, when he wiped the errant droplets from his face, he stared at his reflection in the softness of the morning light—and saw that he did not age.

Raistlin slumped forward, completely overcome. Tears stung his eyes—eyes that were golden still but no longer distorted by the shape of the hourglass—and he looked around the garden hungrily, amazed, mystified, to find that he could stare at flowers that would not wilt, that he could gaze upon trees that would retain their verdant foliage no matter how long he beheld them. The sky was resplendent, the garden superb, and even the very dirt at his feet seemed somehow worthy of his praise. 

Dalamar came to kneel beside him.

“Raistlin,” he repeated. He took his face in one hand, and turned his gaze toward him.

Raistlin was too elated to be flustered by the gesture. He allowed the elf to look all he liked at his newly restored eyes, smiling softly as he did. Even Dalamar himself looked somewhat improved. It was as if a shroud had been removed from between them, as if he were seeing the elf’s features for the first time. His eyes were keener, his smile was  _ that _ much more attractive.

“Wonderful,” Dalamar declared, his voice thick with admiration. “Marvelous.”

“I thank you, Dalamar,” Raistlin replied. He moved from his knees to sit upon the ground, back against the shallow wall at the front of the fountain. “For this, and for yet more.”

Dalamar imitated his pose with much more grace, and sat down next to him. “Hmm, such as following you into this gods-be-damned place?”

“Yes,” Raistlin said. He turned to his apprentice, still jarred at the vibrancy of the foliage of the garden behind him. “I came very near to killing you.”

Dalamar chuckled dryly, “I know.”

“And for that, I must apologize,” Raistlin continued, leaning back deeper against the side of the pool. He stared with his newfound vision at the breaking dawn above, brighter than he could ever recall. “I am indebted to you.”

“You are,” Dalamar agreed. “But fear not, I can always return the favor,” he quipped with a smirk. Raistlin gave him a dubious look, and Dalamar laughed, “No? Well, I am certain I can think of some way for you to repay me,  _ shalafi. _ ”

“You have only to name it,” Raistlin said. Their faces were inches apart, Dalamar’s smile bright and infectious just before him. Now Raistlin  _ did  _ blush. 

“Many things cross my mind,” Dalamar said, eyebrow arched. There was no tension in Dalamar’s eyes as he pondered, no resentment or hatred as he rested beside him. “Perhaps we could add your assistants to the rotation of cleaning the laboratory,” he said.

“Done,” Raistlin answered.

“And you could allow me one afternoon per week to spend in a manner of my own choosing,” Dalamar continued. “ _ Including  _ walking the parks of Palanthas when the weather is agreeable and I find that I am missing my homeland.”

“Very well.”

“And you could teach me the rituals necessary to unlock the set of spellbooks with the nightblue binding.”

Raistlin frowned, “In due time.”

“And you could show me,  _ show me _ ,” Dalamar emphasized, now looking a bit alarmed at his own suggestion, “the workings of the dragon orb in more detail. I have no wish to be captured by its thrall, but it  _ is  _ responsible for Silvanesti’s destruction and I feel it is my duty as an elf and as a follower of the darker magicks to study it in as great a depth as possible.”

“Yes,” Raistlin answered with a sigh. “You have earned that much, and more, for your efforts.” He looked at Dalamar archly. “But it may take some time before you are ready for such things. Is there nothing of the more immediate nature that I may do to express my gratitude for remaining at my side?”

Dalamar had no difficulty in thinking of another request. “You must take me back to Solace,” he said not three seconds later, smirking, “for more of those raspberry tarts.

“Solace?” Raistlin blinked.

“You did promise,” the elf countered, eyes glinting with cunning. “Although we must first return to Iolanthe. I can only imagine how she’ll react, seeing us both return. She’ll probably think I’m a ghost.”

“Yes,” Raistlin said, looking absentmindedly over the garden. He was looking forward to the journey home, he realized. Even the desert must look different to his new sight, not to mention the oasis and the steppe-lands and the mountains. Their splendor had before been lost to him, but now...

“Dalamar,” he said, tentative.

“Yes,  _ shalafi? _ ”

“When we do go to Solace,” he asked carefully, hardly able to believe he was about to ask such a thing, “do you have any objections to traveling there...by land?”

Dalamar did not, at first, seem to comprehend the significance of this request but, apparently noticing how his  _ shalafi’s  _ gaze lingered on the foliage around them, his face soon broke into an enthusiastic grin. “I would like nothing better.”

Raistlin smiled softly in turn, and together, the two mages sat and watched as the sun rose over the garden, the only sounds the steady rush of the Spring of the Unspoiled, and the soft touch of the wind rustling the trees.

But it would not stay silent forever.

There was something that Raistlin must tell him. Something that was nagging at his mind, something that, perhaps, he should have told Dalamar years before, when he had first met that darkest part of him that had nearly proven to be his own undoing.

“I am sure you have wondered about my time in Istar,” Raistlin broke the silence.

Dalamar looked to him, surprised. “Why, yes,  _ shalafi,  _ both of your activities there and of your abrupt return.”

Raistlin’s smile was tight, “And of my...change in behaviour afterward?”

Dalamar's look was reassuring. “Yes, that too,” he said.

Raistlin nodded. “It is only natural. I do not fault you for your curiosity, Dalamar. In fact, I commend you for reminding me of how far I have fallen these last few months, and how much farther I could have yet fallen.” He paused, face drawn in deep concentration. “I think it is time that I told you what truly happened in Istar, about a certain time-traveling kender, and how he introduced me to a creature very aptly called...the Nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time he spilled the beans, isn't it? Oh well. Better late than never. And wow, did you guys think he'd actually pull it off?? (I sure didn't--I mean-- of COURSE I did I'm the author.) And now he looks even more like Geralt of Rivia.


	13. Tomorrow Never Comes

Solace was beautiful in the fall. The vallenwoods stood proud in the shadows of the Kharolis Mountains, their crimson and gold splendor reflected in the still waters of Crystalmir Lake. The afternoon sky was pleasantly blue, and decorated with a healthy smattering of clouds that dappled the arboreal city in the sun’s autumnal light.

Raistlin stared at them as if he had never seen their like, stared too at the trees themselves, which seemed even more pleasing to him now than they had as a child. They had been months on the road, and nothing had thus far tantalized Raistlin’s senses like Solace in the fall. He and Dalamar approached his hometown from the northern road. Their steps were leisurely, their mien as unhurried as it had been since they had taken leave of Iolanthe eight weeks before. Iolanthe herself had indeed been amazed to see both Raistlin  _ and  _ Dalamar returning from the Spring, and even more so when she had realized that their mission had been a success. Breaking from a warm embrace with the dark elf, Iolanthe had turned to help Raistlin from his camel.

“Your eyes,” she had gasped as Raistlin had taken her hand and dismounted. “You—you did it. But how?”

“It is a long tale, Iolanthe,” Raistlin had answered with a wince as his legs had touched the ground, ginger from the long ride. “And one which I am loathe to tell until I have rested, and written to my pupils.”

Iolanthe had protested that surely his assistants at the Tower could wait to hear from him, but Raistlin had held firm.

“Let Dalamar tell you, then,” he had said dismissively. “He had as much to do with it as I.”

Dalamar had smiled graciously. “Thank you,  _ shalafi.  _ I shall inform her of our...adventures,” he had said, and within minutes, he and Iolanthe had made themselves quite at home in the witch’s outdoor kitchen, tea in hand, as Raistlin had shuffled indoors.

His letter to Lhyss and Dorark had been brief. He had reassured them of his and Dalamar’s success and wellbeing, and had instructed them on how to safely dismantle his experiment on the boxes of stasis. He had also informed them, in as vague of terms as possible, that he had decided to extend their trip until the start of winter, and that they could forward any mail addressed to him or to Dalamar to the Inn of the Last Home in Solace, where they were ostensibly bound. Raistlin had left the letter with Iolanthe, who had indicated that the local caravan would take it to the courier one week hence, and he and Dalamar had set out on the next leg of their journey.

The world seemed new to Raistlin. He found himself staring, truly staring, at their surroundings wherever they went. Even skirting the contested lands between Blode and Silvanesti, the archmagus could not help but enjoy the simple splendor of summer. Dalamar had often chided him good-naturedly for this change, calling him, “perhaps more of an elf than I,” to which Raistlin would simply shrug. He felt no shame at his current state. It was as if the very shroud of death had been lifted from him, not just from his sight, but from  _ him.  _ The Nothing, that creature that Raistlin now recognized as belonging to him in the most literal sense, was small within his heart, hardly a spot upon his inner being. He had no delusions that it would not, at intervals, again begin to grow, but that did not deter Raistlin in the slightest. He felt better than he had since his return from Istar, better even than after he had reconciled with his brother, better than when he had bared his soul to Crysania two years before. Dalamar was in his confidence now. Dalamar was as familiar with the Nothing as any of them, and, what’s more, he seemed to understand it better. He had not reprimanded Raistlin. He had not attempted to blame him for what he had done or how he had felt, but neither had he let his actions go unmarked.

“You realize that this will never leave you,” Dalamar had said one night as they had first discussed the Nothing upon the desert sands. The elf had lain next to him beneath the stars, not too close for comfort, but closer than was expected of friend or apprentice.

“I do,” Raistlin had answered, solemn.

“And you’re determined to fight it,” he had continued.

“Yes.”

Dalamar had turned to face him. “I’ll hold you to that, you know,” he had said, eyes boring into his. “If something like this happens again, if the Nothing begins to grow,” his smile had been grim, “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Thank you,” Raistlin had said, and he had meant it. He did not need Dalamar, or anyone, to fight his battles for him, but the accountability was appreciated, especially from someone who understood his struggles so well.

“You’re welcome,” Dalamar had replied. The two had then fallen silent for several moments, each contemplating the stars above, when Dalamar had suddenly begun to laugh. Hysterically.

“What,” Raistlin had sat up, alarmed. He had looked at Dalamar in confusion, suspicion and fear gripping his heart. Had he been wrong to trust the elf? Had he decided to ridicule his  _ shalafi  _ after all? “What is the matter?”

Dalamar had continued to laugh, tears streaming down his face and body doubling on the ground with the force of it.

“Well?” Raistlin had demanded, still uncertain.

“The Spring,” Dalamar had managed to say, laughter making his voice thin. “You could have—you could have used it to— to—be rid of—”

Raistlin had blinked. “I could have used it to be rid of the Nothing,” he had said. He had stared at the dark horizon for a moment, before collapsing back upon the sand. “Name of the gods,” he had breathed. How foolish he had been. Dalamar was entirely correct. He could have asked the Spring to do anything,  _ anything.  _ And he had been so focused on restoring his sight, he had not seen the woods for the trees. 

Weary and overcome, Raistlin had begun to laugh.

And laugh. And laugh.

And soon both mages had been in their own little heaps on the sand, mirth causing their stomachs to ache. Dalamar had been the first to regain control of himself, and had turned to Raistlin with an affectionate smile.

“I apologize, Raistlin. I should have realized it myself.”

Rasitlin had shaken his head, “I do not blame you. I have been even more the fool.”

"Yes? Well,” Dalamar had said. “It does not do to dwell on it. Besides,” he had added, propping himself up on his elbow, face hovering closer to his, “I must admit, I do quite enjoy your new eyes.”

Raistlin had stared at him, entirely uncertain of what to do. Not now, he had thought. He was not ready. He was still unsure, still trying to understand what he wanted, but, perhaps—

Raistlin had leaned forward, and had sealed the kiss. Chaste, swift. It was all that he had been certain of.

He had soon pulled away, and Dalamar had muttered something swift and happy in Silvanesti. His expression had been giddy, eyes glinting with starlight.

“Do not expect me to know what I am doing,” Raistlin had cautioned, tone grave. He had averted his eyes, feeling once more uncertain. “I have never...considered such things before. Considered  _ you  _ before...” His tone had been bitter, lost.

“Then take the time to consider me,” Dalamar had replied. There had been a slyness to his gaze that Raistlin had found most becoming. He had captured his hand, and had brought his knuckles to his lips. “I can wait.”

And thus did they leave the lands of Khur behind them. They did not return to such  _ activities _ for the remainder of their journey, although not for lack of want. Raistlin often contemplated his apprentice’s form as they traveled west across the continent of Ansalon, but he had yet to find the wherewithal to act upon these feelings a second time. But it was no matter, Raistlin assured himself as they approached the vallenwoods of Solace. His recent altercation with the darker parts of his own soul was draining enough without the added complication of...relations with his apprentice. Raistlin was content, for now, to simply enjoy his newly recovered vision. Dalamar, the Tower, his assistants, his experiments—would all be waiting for him when the novelty of his sight at last ceased to amaze him.

And long from now may that be.

“These blasted stairs,” Dalamar commented as they climbed into the trees. The staircase that wound around the trunk of the new Inn of the Last Home was lower than most, but was still some six or seven stories from the ground.

“You should be used to them,” Raistlin remarked dryly.

Dalamar gave his  _ shalafi  _ a sidelong glance, “Have you ever actually  _ seen _ me climb the stairs of the Tower?”

“No,” Raistlin admitted.

Dalamar’s smile grew arrogant. “I’ve been transporting myself from floor to floor for years. I haven’t had to climb more than three flights in succession since I first arrived.”

“That would explain why your spellcasting has been lacking,” Raistlin said, deadpan. “It is little wonder you have any magical energy left after taking such liberties.”

Dalamar chuckled darkly, recognizing the jibe for what it was. “Yes,  _ shalafi.  _ You are quite right. Perhaps I should mend my ways, and give my magic the rest it deserves.”

Long years of enduring the stairs and ladders of Solace had accustomed even Raistlin’s rebellious lungs to the exercise, but even so, he was faint and somewhat flushed as they reached the top landing. It was mid-afternoon, not quite the suppertime rush, and they had passed no one along the stair on their climb.

“Well,” Dalamar shifted the pack on his back and gave Raistlin a tense smile. “What are we waiting for?”

Raistlin nodded, and pushed open the door. Sounds and smells immediately engulfed him: ale and potatoes, spices and sweat, wood burning, bread baking, and people speaking in boisterous clusters all throughout the common room resounded from the door in almost perceptible waves. It was exactly as Raistlin remembered. Solace. The Inn.

Home, of sorts.

Raistlin braced himself, and stepped inside.

Caramon was behind the counter, polishing the bar with an old rag. He did not see the black-robes enter, his gaze on his work as he buffed fragrant pine oil into the grain of the wood, but others did. Murmurs followed the two as they crossed the common room, and sat at the bar just before him.

“Hot water for tea, innkeep,” Raistlin said.

Caramon whipped his head up so fast that he might have snapped his neck. He stared at Raistlin, dumbfounded. “Raist?” He shook his head, as if to ensure he was not dreaming, then broke into a smile. “Raistlin! So you  _ were  _ coming to visit after all. Welcome back!” He had already discarded the rag and had reached across the bar to pull his twin into a fierce embrace.

“Caramon,” Raistlin warned, going tense in his arms.

“Oh, right. Sorry Raist,” Caramon released him sheepishly. He turned to Dalamar, and extended his hand as the patrons in the common room muttered darkly. “Dalamar, wasn’t it? Welcome back to Solace.”

“Thank you,” Dalamar took his hand with faint amusement.

“What do you mean, visiting you after all?” Raistlin said, settling more easily into his seat. He ignored the muttering of the common folk. “You had some notion that we were coming?”

“Oh, yes. Here,” Caramon began to fumble about behind the bar, reaching for something low beneath the counter. He groped about for several moments before producing the items he sought: two scrolls of parchment, the seals of which had both been opened. “These arrived the week before last, addressed to you.”

He took them from his twin. “And you read them?” Raistlin said dubiously.

Caramon went faintly pink. He retrieved the oiled rag, and resumed polishing the bar. “Can you blame me?” he murmured. “After Tanin’s Day of Life Gift party, I’d started to think you’d left us for good. Then these came from Laurana and your assistants, and I started to hope—”

“Laurana?” Raistlin remarked as he skimmed the letters. The first was indeed from Lhyss and Dorark, and stated that they had successfully ended his experiments, that he guardians of the Tower were all behaving themselves, and that they eagerly awaited his and Dalamar’s return. The second was much longer, and in an elegant hand that he could well-imagine belonged to the Golden General. “What news does she have for me?” His brow furrowed, “And how did she know I would be here?”

“Beats me,” Caramon shrugged. “Oh, your tea,” he exclaimed, and hurried off to the kitchen before Raistlin could question him further. His eyes scanned Laurana's missive eagerly, his bewilderment at her letter growing with each word he read.

“What is it,  _ shalafi _ ?” Dalamar asked next to him.

Raistlin did not answer immediately. He wanted to be certain, wanted to be sure of the letter’s sincerity before he replied. At last he came to its end, and he rolled the parchment in upon itself and handed it to Dalamar with a thoughtful expression.

“An apology,” Raistlin said. “For the Day of Life Gift.” Diplomatic yet heartfelt, Laurana’s letter was a formal apology for how she, her husband, and their friends had behaved at Tanin’s party that summer. Apparently perturbed at his sudden departure, Laurana had sent a letter to Lady Crysania to inquire about the rumors of his necromantic studies. Lady Crysania had, as expected, put such kender tales to rest. Her own letter had clarified that while Raistlin and his apprentice had dealt with such dark arts at one point in their studies, Tasslehoff Burrfoot’s expectations to see reanimated corpses at the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas were entirely unfounded. The Revered Daughter had then gone on to tell Laurana, and by extension her husband and all their friends, what Raistlin and Dalamar had _actually_ been researching, lauding that it would be to the benefit of all the peoples of Krynn to let them continue their research unmolested. Raistlin smiled faintly. He was looking forward to seeing Crysania again, and not just because of his restored sight.

Caramon returned, and placed a steaming mug of water before him, and a cup of tarbean tea before his apprentice.

“I hope that’s alright,” Caramon said to the elf, who had already taken a sip of the dark liquid eagerly. “I seem to remember you drinking it last time.”

“With a side of raspberry tart, yes,” Dalamar purred as he took another drink. He arched an eyebrow, “You wouldn’t happen to have one of  _ those  _ lying around would you?”

Caramon shook his head, "Our berries peaked last month. But I can check if we have any apple tarts left, if you’d like.”

“Always offering the tarts before supper, Caramon Majere,” Tika suddenly emerged from the kitchen. She held baby Tanin in her arms, and wore no apron over her now  _ distinctly  _ pregnant belly. Rasitlin rather had the impression that she was not supposed to have been in the kitchen in the first place, judging by her lack of proper attire and the babe clinging to her, but any surprise Raistlin felt at seeing her still on her feet so late into her pregnancy was outweighed by Tika's own surprise at seeing Raistlin and Dalamar sitting across the bar from her husband. 

“ _ You, _ ” she gasped. There was a moment of tension, both Caramon and Raistlin gritting their teeth in anticipation of the displeasure that was certain to follow, but both men were equally surprised when Tika’s eyes went even wider, and she stepped closer to Raistlin. She peered down at him where he sat, “What happened to your  _ eyes? _ ”

“Nothing,” Dalamar quipped with a smirk before the archmagus could respond.

Raistlin returned his look in kind before turning back to Tika. “My sight has been restored.”

“Restored?” Caramon was staring at his twin in shock. He apparently had not noticed the change until now. “You mean, the curse of Raelanna,” he said, “it's broken?”

Raistlin nodded his head. “As you see.”

Tika leaned to one side. “I don’t miss the hourglasses,” she said wryly.

Raistlin met her look with a cold smile, “Nor do I." He turned back to Caramon. “It matters little how it was done. Suffice it to say that the man who first gave me the curse had nothing to do with its breaking. I have only myself and my apprentice to thank.”

“Raist,” Caramon gushed. “That’s, that’s wonderful.” He looked truly overcome. “So you don’t see, well,” he cleared his throat, embarrassed “death and...dying things...anymore?”

Raistlin smiled, “No Caramon. I do not see death and dying things anymore.”

“Praise be to Paladine,” the big man said with wonder.

“Or to Sirrion,” Dalamar remarked under his breath.

“This calls for a celebration,” Caramon boomed with excitement. He turned to the keg behind him with a glint in his eye. “We’ll open the newest barrel. We’ll tell everyone to come. Drinks on the house!”

“Caramon,” both Raistlin and Tika remarked with alarm.

Caramon looked between them, confusion scrunching his doughy face.

Tika sighed, and placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Raistlin doesn't want a celebration,” she scolded. “The man’s clearly spent months on the road. I’m certain he and his apprentice would like nothing better than to sit by the fire and rest.”

Caramon’s face flushed, but he nodded in acquiescence. “Sure, Tika. You’re right. I was just getting ahead of myself, as usual,” he said, but his contrition was soon replaced by cheer. “How about it, Raistlin?” he asked, smiling. “Your favorite spot is open. I can throw another log on the fire. You can stay the night before you return to the Tower or,” he frowned, apparently just realizing for the first time that they bore packs on their backs and that their clothes had been stained by travel, “wherever it is you’re going. Where  _ are  _ you going anyway?”

“Here,” Raistlin answered, gratified to see Caramon’s face steadily begin to fill with joy. “We have traveled far, my brother, with Solace as the destination of our minds. Now that we have reached our journey’s end,” he shrugged, “we have no plans to return to the Tower until winter. I cannot promise to stay that long but—”

Raistlin’s words were cut off by another fierce hug of Caramon’s. He leaned over the counter and squeezed him tightly, shorter this time than before, and when he pulled back from him, there were tears in his eyes. He batted at them. “Of course, Raist. Stay as long as you’d like, and not a second longer. I know you have things of your own to do so don’t let us keep you—”

“I won’t,” Raistlin said with a contented smile. And with that, he and Dalamar moved to the corner table by the fire they had occupied upon their last visit to the Inn. It was not in quite the same position as the table by the fire in the old Inn, the one that had been burned and blasted by the dragonarmies of Takhisis, but it reminded Raistlin of that fateful night all the same. The air was similar, the mood the same. Raistlin could almost look to the door and expect to see Sturm Brightblade enter, or Flint Fireforge, or even his sister, although he knew that Kitiara’s appearance would be even less likely than theirs, living though she was.

The supper rush came, the Inn filled to capacity, but Tika was still sure to bring them wine and spiced potatoes, and even left baby Tanin in their care while she was inevitably called to help Dezra and the other barmaids run plates and mugs to their guests. Holding his nephew was satisfying, passing him to Dalamar was pleasing. Raistlin felt no impending plans of greatness weighing upon him, felt no frantic need to hone his magical arts. Greatness would never leave him, he knew, nor would his beloved magic. But not all things lasted forever. Not his accursed sight, not his plans to remove it, not his heedless trudge into darkness. Not the babe within his arms. Not the warmth of the fire. Not the passionate looks of his apprentice. Not the leaves on the vallenwoods that rustled in the nighttime breeze. The impermanence of such things had been forever burned into Raistlin’s mind. But at least now he could gaze upon such things as if they  _ were  _ eternal. Now at least, he could see the world without the constant taint of death and destruction, and know that it would never leave him as barren and empty as he had long been forced to imagine.

**-END-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming on this journey with me! I had so much fun writing this one. Good tunes, bad times, angst, love, friendship--it's been a ride. I'm keeping the series open for now, with no immediate plans to update it. I have some ideas, but I'm looking forward to a nice, long break in the upcoming months. Let me know if you enjoyed this second act of Raistlin's fight against the Nothing, and if you want to see more :)
> 
> Cheers!


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